Better With You
by LittleSixx
Summary: Dean Thomas moved out of his flat after a bad breakup and his new neighbor has a sex life that literally moves walls ... Specifically the one against his headboard.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Based on (read: plot largely ripped from) the novel "Wallbanger" by Alice Clayton. If you're in need of a giggle I recommend that book. Mature rating is for sexytimes. Dramione is a secondary pairing. There are five planned chapters._

* * *

_Thump._

"Ungh!"

_Thump._

"Oh God."

Dean forced his eyes open. He rolled his head to the side and the clock read 2:04. He groaned, new flat, of course his neighbor would be a night owl. He rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and tried to block it out.

"Yes. Yes, there, God yes!"

Oh, bloody hell. Dean sat up again and turned to look at the wall behind him. He moved in earlier that day and had yet to fully orient himself. It was a large apartment for just one person, but Dean liked the space. More space meant more room for thoughts that were not about Seamus. Dean thought about his new wood floors, the nice tub that was a full foot too short for him to use, and the cabinets he had yet to stock.

He flopped onto his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow. He had less than two hours of sleep left, surely he could just nod off … Then his headboard moved.

"Yes, so good!"

Dean slammed his fist against the wall twice and shouted, "Either finish now or wait five minutes until I'm asleep!"

**.oOo.**

Dean smacked his alarm clock two hours later. He pushed his legs over the side of the bed and wiped the crust from his eyes. His feet smacked loudly against the floor as he made his way to the bathroom … Which was actually the small office he and Ron had set up in the second bedroom. Dean groaned and fumbled his way over to the bathroom.

His mornings were planned down to the minute because if he didn't Dean would always be late to work. His shower took about two minutes since it was not a hair-washing day. He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, then padded back to his bedroom. Dean pulled on some knickers and jeans, chose his _Espresso Patronum_ t-shirt, and grabbed his wallet off the nightstand.

By the time he stepped into The Silver Snitch at 4:30, he was fully awake and prepared to take on the day. He threw on an apron and started work on the first batch of the day's croissants. He opened the shop at 5:30 and Romilda showed up at 5:29.

"Not late, boss!"

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was used to this. Romilda Vane was many things, but punctual never found its way onto that list. She was the best barista in the country, though, and Dean would bet a load of Galleons on that. She could spell any name and make coffee while taking a completely different order. Zacharias Smith had been the other helping hand behind the counter, but he was fired a month earlier. Dean didn't regret it; his boyfriend left him for his barista. It was humiliating and Dean couldn't look Zacharias in the face every morning knowing he had just come from Seamus's bed.

Was it fair? No. Did it matter? Not in the least bit. Dean felt bad about putting him out of a job, but Zacharias was smart and would bounce back quickly. Dean's heart was not quite so buoyant.

"ROMI!" Angelina Johnson was their first customer every weekday morning, without fail. She tossed the doors open at 5:31 and shouted the drink order Romilda was already making. "Bludger cinnamon dolce latte, two bacon egg bites, and a cup of water!"

"On it, babe," Romilda shouted over her shoulder.

Dean grabbed the egg bites from the display and put them on a plate. He filled a cup with water then handed both items to Angelina.

"How is life with George?" he asked.

"He's moved in with me, and we are still adjusting. It's little things, right? He tosses his clothes on the floor next to the hamper. Why is it so difficult to put them inside the bloody hamper? 's nice, though, waking up next to him."

Dean sighed. He missed that most of all, starting the day hand-in-hand with the person who knew him better than anyone else.

"And the Wasps?"

"They all put their robes in the team hamper," Angelina joked.

Dean laughed as she walked over to her usual spot in the corner. Quidditch practice began at six, so she would leave around 5:55. Dean knew the routines of all his regulars. When he opened The Silver Snitch three years earlier, he was met with a lot of skepticism. The Wizarding world was not quick to embrace grab-and-go coffee, but Gambol and Japes had gone out of business once Weasley's Wizard Wheezes came to Diagon Alley. The building was for sale and Seamus pushed him into this. Which was just like him, always pushing Dean to follow his heart.

Dean shook his head, trying to force the thoughts away. He could move flats, but he couldn't move his business. Seamus still lurked around every corner. The half-table in the back that he accidentally exploded. Even the name "Silver Snitch" was Seamus's idea. Dean was desperate for something, or someone, who could take his mind off the love he'd lost.

Weekdays from 1:45 to 2:15 was the shop's only reprieve. Dean could count on one hand the number of times someone had shown up in the shop during that half hour. There were two very prominent exceptions.

Draco Malfoy was the least subtle person on the planet. He flung the shop doors open at 1:45 and Dean nodded to Romilda. She groaned, frowned, then grabbed a Quaffle-sized cup.

"I need one of those latte drinks," Malfoy said.

"We have five types of lattes, if you could bring yourself to read the board," Romilda replied. She gestured to the board behind her with her Sharpie.

Draco rolled his eyes and said, "Surprise me."

"Vanilla then, like your sex life," Romilda countered. She turned to the machine and Malfoy didn't look the slightest bit offended.

"Vanilla by Blaise's standards, perhaps," he said.

A minute later, Romilda put his finished latte on the counter.

"Two Sickles."

"The board says it's only seventeen Knuts," Draco said.

"Now you can read the board?" Romilda asked facetiously. She took the seventeen Knuts from Draco's proffered hand and tossed them into the register.

Draco sat in the booth tucked into the furthest corner. Seamus had blown its table leg off and the replacement was a tad wobbly. They stuck it in the back, out of view of the rest of the shop. Draco always sat there when he came in, waiting for his guest.

Hermione stopped by five minutes later. Dean had the berry tea ready for her on the counter. She nodded to him, took the tea, and made for the backmost table.

"They are going to get caught," Romilda whispered.

"Not here," Dean insisted. "But if they aren't careful elsewhere, I think you're right."

"When are you going to hire another barista?" Romilda asked.

Dean shrugged.

"Are you growing tired of me?"

"Of course not!" she whisper-shouted. "I just don't like seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"Like you lost your one shot at love. You are worth so much more than you were getting from him, Dean. And it may not be the best thing to say to my boss, but you are too kind and you need someone who won't take advantage of that."

"Yes," Dean said, untying his apron, "that is the wrong thing to say to your boss."

"Doesn't make me wrong," Romilda replied.

**.oOo.**

That evening, Dean fell into bed around ten. He paused in the doorway to admire the painting that hung above his bed. Dean gave Luna a photograph of him with his sisters and she had painted it with good likeness, but gave it a very ethereal quality. It was dreamy. He smiled at it softly, because he may not have romantic love in his life, but he always had his family.

Dean double-checked his alarm then flopped onto his stomach. Sleep came eventually, but it took awhile. Romilda was right. He needed to hire someone new, so he didn't have to be in the shop every day looking at parts of his life that weren't there any longer. He would set up interviews within the week. He would take out an ad in the _Prophet_. Things would get better because they had to get better.

_Thump._

"Oh, God."

_Thump. Thump._

"Harder." A pause. "More." Another pause. "Again. Ag—unph!"

Unbelievable.

The wall behind the bed moved again. It was a new male voice on the other side. That meant both voices were guests and his neighbor remained a silent party. Dean felt each time his neighbor's headboard slammed into the wall. He groaned and glanced at the clock.

_12:35_

Dean smashed his face back into his pillow, then grabbed another and forced it over his ears.

_Smack!_

"Yes!"

_Smack!_

"Harder!"

_SMACK!_

Was the mystery guest getting … spanked? Another round and Dean confirmed that yes, his neighbor was spanking someone who sounded suspiciously like Graham Montague. Dean shook his head and groggily dragged his blanket out to the sofa.

**.oOo.**

Dean heard his alarm like it was going off at the other end of a distant tunnel. He sat up slowly and wiped away the crust that had formed in the corners of his eyes. He squinted at the light shining in through the window. Then he jolted up off the sofa because there was light streaming in through the window and that meant it was daylight. He ran into his room to shut off his alarm and nearly fainted when he saw _10:17_.

He never wore anything more than boxers to sleep in, and thank Merlin because it made getting dressed a bit quicker. He pulled on the closest pair of trousers he could scrape off the floor and an old West Ham United t-shirt; the first thing he pulled from the dresser drawer. He hurriedly gargled some mouthwash then Apparated to the Silver Snitch.

Dean ran out from the back and saw Romilda calmly serving coffee to a line of five people. Without looking backward, she said,

"I tried to make the little egg bites like you do, but that failed. I got the biscuits and parfaits done, though."

"H-how did you manage to run the shop alone for five whole hours?!"

Romilda shrugged and never provided an answer.

"Why are you so late?" she asked.

"The, um, the neighbor in my new flat was up late shagging. Very loudly," Dean added as he pulled on his apron. "I slept on the couch away from my alarm."

Romilda laughed and asked, "Reminded of everything you're not getting at the moment?"

"Something like that." Dean grimaced and went to bake the afternoon foods. He'd never been late before and it felt awful.

Once they shut the doors at five, Dean sat Romilda down at one of the tables. She was very pretty, but it always snuck up on him. Much of the time she spent with her head down and eyes narrowed as she tried to focus on the task at hand. Romilda Vane was amazing and Dean didn't think he told her that often enough. He sat across from her and said,

"I apologize for being late today."

"Not to worry, boss. I made it work, didn't I?" Romilda asked.

"Yes, you did, and it was impressive. I admire the way you solved the problem and I also love that you trusted me to show up eventually."

"I like to think I know you well enough," Romilda replied.

"I want to know why you work for me," Dean countered. "Because I know this is not what you want to do with the rest of your life."

She shrugged.

"Not a lot of people like me. I want to work for people who can use my skills the way I am, and not try to change part of me. You tell me I'm fabulous at least once a week and you trust me not to muck things up. Eventually, I'll have enough money saved to start my own business. Until then I'd rather work for you than anybody else."

Dean smiled.

"I want you to assist me with the interviews for our new employees."

"Employees?!" Romilda shouted. "We'll be getting more than one?!"

"Yes. Twelve-hour days aren't right, Romilda. I can't keep working you like this, it's just not fair."

"Oh," she said, disappointed. She twiddled her thumbs and asked, "So I will get less money."

"You will get the same amount of money for fewer hours," Dean revealed. He wished he could have photographed Romilda's smile at the news. "We will hire three more baristas, and you will be promoted to manager."

"You mean it?!" Romilda shouted, smiling so hard her face might break with the effort.

Dean nodded and said, "A promotion is long overdue. I am the luckiest shop owner in the world to have you working for me. And it'll be a lot less work for me. I won't be here all the time, having to look at all this. You're right that I look everywhere and see Seamus."

"How long were you together, again?" Romilda asked. "If you don't mind answering."

"Officially? Five years. But even at school, then after the war … We were always close. We lived every part of our lives together for so long, I just don't know how to do things without him." Dean let his head fall into his hands. "God, how bloody pathetic is that?"

Romilda put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It's not pathetic," she insisted. "You feel things very deeply and it takes time for these cuts to heal. You will find someone who makes you feel happier than you ever imagined. You deserve that much, and I don't say that as your employee. I say that as your friend."

That night, there was a blissful silence on the other side of the bedroom wall.

**.oOo.**

There were two more quiet nights, but just as Dean was about to drift off on Sunday evening …

"I would like you inside me."

Dean was fairly certain that was Riley Willingham. He made a mental note to ask Hermione whether there is a Silencing charm that can be cast on the opposite side of a wall. It was quiet for a minute, and Dean hoped his neighbor had refused. Perhaps this night would end early and he could get to sleep at a reasonable—

The wall shook and the bed thumping began.

"More, please," Riley said, a tad breathless.

Dean wondered whether the walls were actually made of paper because he heard Riley's gasps as though Riley was a mere twenty centimetres away. It was beyond strange to hear one of his regular customers shagging his voiceless neighbor.

And his neighbor obliged enthusiastically. The thumps became more frequent and much harder. Dean did not want to intrude on their shagging, so he grinded his teeth together and braced for fifteen more minutes of this.

"Oooh, God, so good …"

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

Ten minutes passed, with Dean staring at the neon numbers on his alarm clock the whole while. Then,

_THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!_

The painting above his bed was knocked off its hook and fell directly onto Dean's head.

"Oh, FUCK!" he shouted. He delicately placed the art against the wall and rubbed his head. The thumping never missed a beat, and that frustrated him more than anything. Dean's rage had built up over the week and he had reached the boiling point. Whether it was the lack of sex, the flat he still hadn't quite adjusted to, or the extra hours he was putting in at the shop … Maybe it was all of it.

Dean flung off the blanket and stomped over to the entryway, livid. He flung open his door with the force of two sexless months and a broken heart held together with nothing but Spellotape. Dean walked over and began pounding on his neighbor's door. Dean banged again and again, unrelenting. Eventually he heard feet slapping toward the door but kept hitting the door with his fist until he heard locks rattling and chains coming undone.

"Open this door, asshole, or I will climb through the wall!" Dean shouted.

"If you'll lay off for a moment …"

It was the first thing Dean ever heard his mystery neighbor say. Any other time, that voice would have made Dean melt like butter in a hot pan. It was deep and deliberate, like words were hard to come by with him.

The door swung open and Dean couldn't help but stare. There was a light coming from somewhere down the hall in his flat, so he couldn't make out everything about his mystery neighbor. But what Dean could see was more than enough. He was about two inches shorter than Dean, with a buzzcut and the most kissable lips Dean had ever seen. They slowly gave each other the once-over, mystery neighbor with his tawny beige skin and David Beckham jawline.

Dean took a deep breath in and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember why he was so angry. Then he opened his eyes and saw mystery neighbor's hand holding two sides of a white sheet together around his hips. In addition to being a stunning human above the waist, Dean's eyes followed a trail of fine black hair until it disappeared behind the sheet. Dean's eyes widened as his eyes moved further down, because beneath the sheet …

_He_

_Was_

_Still_

_Hard._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This story takes place in summer of 2008. The Silver Snitch is basically Wizarding Starbucks with three sizes of drinks: Snitch (tall), Bludger (grande), and Quaffle (venti)._

* * *

"Was he hot?"

Dean rolled his eyes. They were in the middle of the noon rush and she was still trying to pry this out of him. He pulled out one of the Snitch-shaped biscuits and wrapped it up.

"I am twenty-nine, Romilda. I can have a conversation without thinking about how attractive someone is."

"So you think he is attractive?" she asked over the noise of the crowd. When Dean did not respond, she asked, "There was conversation?"

"Briefly," Dean admitted. He handed the biscuit to the customer and shuddered at the memory. That discussion was not his finest moment.

"What did you talk about?" Romilda asked, jotting the next name on a cup.

"I told him to cut out the noise, he said the walls were thick, and I said, 'Not nearly as thick as your head."

Romilda laughed.

"He tried to chastise me, said he doesn't come banging on my door in the middle of the night, and I said, 'No, you just bang on my wall.' Then I left."

"But was he hot?" she asked again.

"Romilda …" Dean warned.

"Scale of one to ten."

"Ten," Dean admitted with a sigh.

Romilda smiled as she made the next order.

"You're into him.

"I am not."

"Have you at least thought about shagging him?"

"No, since I only ever hear his guests. I would rather not think about any of them."

Romilda took the next order then fiddled around the register for a few moments. Dean gently nudged her to the side and began taking orders as she got started on a hefty one. Even while pulling a half-dozen different levers, she still managed to have a conversation.

"Dean, you have a hot neighbor who is very single and you don't want to shag him?! That is the first thing you do after a bad breakup: rebound sex! It's been two months, but it is never too late for rebound shagging. Men like Mr. Hot-and-Hard are perfect. They are like those little sanitary wipes: use once and throw away!"

Dean couldn't suppress a chuckle.

"I don't think I would enjoy that."

"Don't count your owls before all the letters have been delivered," Romilda countered.

Dean paused, looked at her, then asked, "What does that even mean?"

"It means you should shag your hot neighbor," their customer said.

The woman digging through her purse behind him said, "Dean's got too big a heart for that."

"That's a good point," customer number one said, placing fifteen Knuts into Dean's hand. "But perhaps something new would be nice."

"See?" Romilda asked. "They agree."

"I think that means I should talk less about my personal life with my customers," Dean said pointedly.

No matter how much he tried, though, he failed miserably. He was never the sort of person to not answer a question, to blow someone off or to react in a way that would dampen someone's day. When customers asked,

"How's your new flat?" and "Still playing football?" and, Dean's personal favourite, "When was the last time you got a haircut?" He saw no reason not to answer.

After they shut their doors at five, Romilda asked,

"You know things will get better, right?"

Dean shrugged and said, "They have to."

"I still think you should shag your neighbor."

"I'm sure his calendar is already filled."

**.oOo.**

But it wasn't. Monday night was completely silent on the other side of the wall. Dean fell into a deep sleep at ten and woke up on time.

When he arrived at work on Tuesday, there were two jars set up behind a small piece of parchment that read, "Should Dean shag his hot neighbor?" One jar was labeled **YES** and the other **NO**. He felt his face flush bright pink.

"ROMILDA!"

She Apparated into the shop as though she had been Summoned. Her timing was always a little spooky. Her face remained perfectly innocent as he said,

"You cannot put out tip jars asking about my sex life!"

"Why not?" she asked with a shrug.

"Because it's invasive!" Dean shouted.

"Why? We talk about it in front of the customers all the time. Let's make some money from it."

Dean grinded his teeth and said, "I offer a compromise."

"Let's hear it."

"You can keep the tip jars if you do the barista interviews yourself. Bring me your top five and I will select the final three."

Romilda laughed and said, "You hate interviewing."

"I really do," he admitted. "The moment I ask someone, 'Tell me about yourself,' it's like they were on the wrong end of a Memory Charm. The past twenty years of their life are gone the moment I ask the question. Half of them lie on their application and the other half are too humble. If you do this for me, you can keep the tip jars."

"Done."

By the end of the day the **YES** jar had a hundred Knuts and a few Sickles. The **NO **jar had three Knuts.

Dean's football scrimmage began at six and it was the only time he was completely free of Seamus. He just ran for ninety minutes, thinking about nothing but the football and the dirt beneath his feet. It was all Muggles, no Wizarding friends to make snide quips about a certain someone who was more likely to make a ball explode than he was to kick it. Dean's mates never brought it up, not that Seamus had ever come to a match. The only reason Dean's friends knew he had a boyfriend was because they kept trying to set him up and he had to say no. The only reason they knew about the breakup was because Dean kicked the football so hard the following week he bruised the goaltender's spleen.

"There's a guy …"

Dean groaned. They lost the game 2-1 and he did not need this. He wiped the dirt and sweat off his face with a towel and said,

"I don't need a guy, Jake."

"But he'd be really good for you," Leo chimed in. "Bounceback sort of thing, eh?"

"Good God, what is with you people and rebound shagging?!" Dean shouted. "It has been two months! I am not ready to move on yet, alright? I don't care how handsome or great or smart this guy is. He is not Seamus and my heart's still there, okay? So lay off it."

He had known Leo and Jake since primary school. Jake had been his first crush, actually, the year before he went to Hogwarts. He had blond hair and green eyes, star of the football team at university, and he was always a loyal friend. Leo was a nerd, like Hermione in a lot of ways. His nose was always in a book until his feet hit dirt.

It was Leo who cornered Dean as he left.

"Are you doing alright, mate?"

Normally Dean would have resented the question. He was always open about how he was feeling and what was going wrong. For Leo to ask, well … Dean realized he hadn't been completely honest with himself. He sighed and said,

"No, I'm not."

"D'you want to talk about it?" Leo asked.

"Not really, but I probably should," Dean admitted.

"Look, you've been showing up for two months looking like you just found out Santa Claus isn't real."

"You have no proof," Dead said, completely stoic.

Leo laughed and asked, "Have you allowed yourself to be angry about this?"

"Of course I was angry," Dean said. "I was angry it ended, I was angry at Zacharias for taking advantage of the time he spent with me and Seamus, I was angry at myself for agreeing to let him keep the house—"

"But did you ever get angry at _him_?" Leo asked.

"Y—" Dean paused. He glanced at the ground and shook his head. "No."

"You should give that a go, mate," Leo said. He clapped Dean on the shoulder and went on his way. After a couple steps he turned around and said, "Our nice-looking friend will be at the match next week, so maybe get a haircut or something."

Dean walked to a secluded part of the park then Apparated back to his flat. He grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and downed half of it in one go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and jumped up onto the counter. Dean swirled the water around for a few moments, thinking perhaps everyone in his life had a point. Maybe they went about it the wrong way, but his friends were all saying the same basic thing: Dean hadn't dealt with the breakup in any meaningful way.

There was a knock on his door a few minutes later.

"'s open!" Dean shouted. He hopped off the counter as the door swung open to reveal his fully-clothed mystery neighbor. God, he was somehow even more gorgeous in the light. He wore white trousers and a black button-down with the top three buttons left open. Suddenly, all that money in the tip jar did not seem misplaced.

"I owe you an apology," he said. Dean walked toward the door as his neighbor offered up a pair of fuzzy green earmuffs. Dean laughed as he accepted them.

"You can come in."

Mystery Neighbor pulled the door shut behind him and surveyed the flat.

"Are you still moving in?"

Dean shook his head.

"Oh, well it's …"

"Bare, I know," Dean finished for him. "I, um, wasn't planning a move. It just sort of happened."

Mystery Neighbor shifted on his feet and asked, "Was I interrupting something?"

"No, I was just about to shower."

"You do look like you rolled around a damp Quidditch pitch."

"I don't play Quidditch." Dean paused to take a sip of water. Mystery Neighbor's eyes followed the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. That gaze added a solid five minutes to Dean's shower. "Football. It's a Muggle sport."

"Ah," he said, clearly disinterested. "Oh, apologies." He held out his hand and said, "My name is Blaise Zabini."

"Dean Thomas," he replied, taking Blaise's hand. Two seconds passed, but it felt like ten with Blaise's thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand and Blaise's eyes sparkling with mischief.

"You should come."

"Should I?" Blaise teased.

"To a game, I mean."

"I will if you shower."

**.oOo.**

Dean came with his right hand fisted against the shower wall. He let the water stream take the release off his hand and started shampooing his hair. He made sure to get all the dirt out, conditioned, and ran his fingers through his curls before they could get too tangled. He used the fancy soap instead of the bar because, as much as he hated to admit it, Dean's heart may be less broken than he previously believed.

He toweled off then strung it across his hips before leaving the bathroom for his bedroom. He paused, since Blaise had taken over his kitchen. He had one bottle levitating over a pan. Blaise tapped his forefinger against the air and Dean watched the oil begin to pool in the pan as Blaise went back to kneading something he couldn't see.

Dean grabbed one of his nicer shirts from the closet. A dark purple henley and black jeans, neither of which had any rips or holes. Neither were fraying at the hem, so he was pretty confident when he walked out to find Blaise still engrossed in whatever he was cooking.

"Whatever that is, it smells fantastic."

"Thank you," Blaise said. "I hope you like it. You are not allergic to nuts, are you?"

"No."

"Fantastic. I knew I liked you."

"You don't know me," Dean countered.

Blaise shrugged and said, "That is true, I suppose. Tell me why you had to move so suddenly, then."

"That's a long story."

"Are you pressed for time?"

"No."

"Then please share," Blaise requested. He had just walked into Dean's flat and started cooking like it was normal. He had brought over his own food to cook in Dean's flat because Dean had nothing in his cupboards.

Dean admired the brazenness of it. He hopped onto the kitchen island where Blaise had some sort of tomato and cheese thing half-assembled. Dean watched Blaise work for a few moments before speaking again because it was soothing. He handled everything in the kitchen like it was an extension of a limb. He flung salt and pepper into things like he was conducting a symphony.

"I had a long-term boyfriend."

"Oh?" Blaise asked, surprised.

"Is it the long-term or the boyfriend that shocks you?" Dean asked.

"Neither. I saw where your eyes went when I opened my door, Dean Thomas. I know our brooms fly in the same direction. I did not expect you to answer my question, is all."

"Well I haven't yet, have I?"

"Go on, then."

Dean took a deep breath and scooted further back on the island so he could bring one leg up to rest beneath him.

"Two months ago, my boyfriend came home and told me he was leaving me for my employee."

"_Oddio!_" Blaise shouted. He turned around, left five ingredients suspended in midair to give Dean a sympathetic glance. "You said long-term, but how long had you been together?"

"Five years."

"No," he whispered. "Oh, Merlin, I am so sorry that happened to you, Dean."

"It really shouldn't affect me this much," Dean insisted.

"Do not say that," Blaise insisted. He reached out as if ready to place a hand reassuringly on Dean's thigh, but thought better of it. Instead, he crossed his arms and said, "You have to feel things for them to be real."

"I dunno." Dean sighed. "He was the first person I ever really loved and I never thought I would need anyone else. We're nearing thirty for Christ's sake! I thought what we had was unbreakable. And … And I know they're happy. I am glad Seamus is happy, but I am stuck like this. Just wondering whether I gave too much of myself to him and whether I know how to do it again. Or if I even want to."

Blaise cooked in silence after that. It took ten minutes for him to plate the dish: spaghetti and giant meatballs. They didn't bother going over to the table, opting instead to eat right there in the kitchen so Dean would not have to move. He took one bite of the meatball and moaned.

"God, this is delicious!"

Blaise's pupils were dilated and Dean wondered exactly what was happening. The longer they talked, the more it felt like a date. The longer Blaise looked at him like that, the higher the chance of

"Would you like to know the secret?" Blaise asked, jumping onto the island to sit next to Dean.

"Absolutely."

"When most people make meatballs, they use torn bread or panko breadcrumbs but that can dry out the meat if you are not careful. I use cashews instead."

"Really?" Dean asked. He took another bite and said, "I can't even taste them."

"My neighbors in Modena would have me burned at the stake if they knew I substituted cashews for bread," he teased.

Dean slurped some spaghetti and asked, "You're Italian?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you go to Hogwarts?" Dean asked. "Not that I remember much of you. You were always so …"

"Quiet," Blaise said. "That has not changed."

"Seems like it has to me."

"Because I like you."

"And you only talk to people you like?"

Blaise amended the statement to, "I only speak freely with the people I trust."

"And you decided to trust me, why?"

"Because you did not judge me for having three different partners on three consecutive nights."

"Who says I didn't?" Dean asked.

Blaise shot him a look of disapproval then cut a large chunk out from one of his meatballs.

"Obviously my version of monogamy led to Seamus practically ripping my heart out of my chest. Who the hell am I to judge you for doing the opposite? You seem quite content with the state of your love life, and I am not one to judge someone for living their life in a way that does no harm to anyone else."

"Hmm …" Blaise muttered. They ate in silence for a few minutes before he asked, "Seamus Finnegan?"

"Yes."

"He does seem like the type to have a rather explosive sex life."

"Oh, hah hah, you make jokes now?" Dean laughed.

"One has been known to slip out upon occasion," Blaise admitted. He smiled, a tad embarrassed, and it was the cutest goddamn thing Dean had ever seen.

"The sex was fine; I wasn't with him for the sex. I was with him for everything else."

"'Fine?!" Blaise asked, incredulous.

"He preferred me to top, and I don't like it," Dean admitted. He might have stabbed his fork a tad too hard into a meatball.

"Do you ever take what you want into consideration?" Blaise asked. Dean rolled his eyes, but Blaise insisted. "Did you ever take him to one of your games?"

Dean shook his head and said, "Seamus never wanted to go."

"Did he keep all the furniture?" Blaise asked. "Is that why you have nothing but a sofa in your living area?"

"I let him keep the whole house," Dean replied.

"Sorry, you had a _house?!_ And you just … You just let him keep it?"

"He needed it more than I did," Dean said.

Blaise put his plate down and gently patted Dean's cheek until they were facing each other. Blaise looked him in the eye and said,

"Dean Thomas, I need you to know that you are not a doormat."

"I know that."

"No, Dean, I don't think you do." Blaise dropped his hand, but his gaze never wavered. "Romi speaks very highly of you. I know how you talk to her and the kindness you have shown her the past two years. Much less the trust you place in her. Never lose that confidence in people, Dean. That is so rare, but people take advantage of you and at some point you have to put yourself first."

Dean believed him, believed that Blaise meant every word. He leaned in for a kiss, but Blaise turned away. He shook his head and said,

"Not now."

"Okay," Dean said with a nod. He caught sight of the earmuffs and said, "I suppose I should thank you for taking a break from your lovers. I enjoy getting a full night's rest every now and again."

He didn't intend for it to sound mean. It was genuine gratitude, but the way Blaise looked when he said it … Blaise hopped off the counter and sped toward the door.

"Blaise!" Dean shouted after him. "Wait! You forgot your dishes!"

He did not turn around.

There was silence again that night, but Dean tossed and turned the whole evening.

**.oOo.**

Thursday was a normal day until noon.

The thing about Blaise Zabini was that he announced himself. Not with his voice, but his presence always preceded him into a room. If Dean had to pick a single word to describe him after one dinner, it would be "balanced." Blaise had a very calming aura about him; something about Blaise Zabini was just comfortable. It felt like … Well, it felt like home.

Dean looked up at the door whole seconds before Blaise entered the shop. His hands froze over the register as Romilda continued taking the next order. By the time Blaise reached the counter, Dean had a whole diatribe written in his head. Once glance from Blaise and it turned to dust.

"How do I order here?" he asked.

"Blaise, do you even drink coffee?" Romi countered. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, someone has my dishes." He turned to look at Dean, who seemed to have forgotten a large portion of the English language.

"I … I …"

"Wait, you two know each other?" Romilda asked.

"Dean, here, is my neighbor," Blaise revealed.

Romilda gasped.

"NO! You are Mystery Neighbor?!" she asked.

Blaise nodded.

"Dean is Hot Abs Guy?!"

Another nod, and Romilda rubbed her temples.

"How did I not put that together?" she asked no one in particular.

"Dean, may I pick up my dishes at seven?" Blaise asked. "We need to make plans for you to take me to that feetball match."

"Foot," Dean croaked out. He cleared his throat and said, "Football. It's football."

"So you only play with one foot?" Blaise asked. "How strange."

"I …" Dean still could not find the words.

"Tonight at seven, then," Blaise said. He walked away and Dean was left to wonder what, exactly, had transpired.

Blaise stopped at the door and turned back toward the front counter. He pulled seven Galleons from the pocket of his trousers and slipped them into the **YES** jar with a quick smile before departing.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a knock on Dean's door at seven, as promised. He opened it to reveal Blaise Zabini holding three large plastic containers.

"I thought you came back for your dishes?" Dean asked.

"Yes, well, I made dinner and turns out I made enough for two."

"Strange how that happens," Dean said.

"Isn't it?" Blaise asked with faux innocence.

If Dean didn't know better, he would say Blaise was blushing. But he didn't seem like the type to get nervous so Dean invited him in and shut the door behind him. Blaise wandered over to the dining table, a tiny wooden tripod-looking thing. It might fit two plates and glasses if they were deliberate about it.

"Did you cook like this for your previous neighbor," Dean asked, "or am I special?"

"I just happened to make enough for two," Blaise repeated. "Total coincidence. Happens all the time."

Dean laughed then grabbed some plates. They did manage to get both plates and two glasses of water on the table, but the cutlery had to be tilted diagonally. Blaise had made white seabass and even after one bite, it was the best thing Dean had ever eaten.

"Right now," Dean said mid-chew, "I am seriously considering marrying you."

"What is stopping you?" Blaise asked. He smiled and took another bite off his own plate.

"I need to know how well you cook chicken before I can make such a large commitment," Dean parried back. "What's in this, anyhow?"

"That there on the bottom is a chickpea puree, there is some kale, some mint, and artichoke."

Dean took a gigantic bite of seabass then asked, "Are you a professional chef?"

"I am."

"I didn't know that," Dean said. "I don't know much about you at all."

"Few people do," Blaise replied. "What would you like to know?"

Dean thought about it for a moment. There were many, many things he wanted to know. _Have you ever been in a long-term relationship? What about your family? What do you do for fun?_ But that seemed like something he would ask on a date. This was not a date … Was it? Then again, it didn't matter if it was. Blaise had his harem and Dean had a broken heart. It couldn't work.

"What is your favourite type of food to cook?" he asked. It seemed like a safe question and Blaise's eyes lit up when he answered.

"Italian, of course. I am from Modena, which is in northern Italy and has its own distinct way of cooking. Every region in Italy has its own way of cooking and I love them all. People can get so caught up in the differences between northern and southern food but the differences are far more dispersed. When I was little we had a neighbor who took me in when my mother was away. She taught me to cook. She took me from Florence to Naples, teaching me how to experience every place through food. That was the best time of my entire life. When I eat food like this, I feel like I am home."

"When your mother was away?" Dean repeated.

Blaise got that look on his face, the one from yesterday. He looked down at the table in shame. He didn't say anything for a full minute so Dean steered things in another direction.

"Is Italian the only cuisine you can cook?"

Blaise scoffed.

"Merlin, no! Italian food is about fulfillment. It is hearty, heavy, you know … You never walk away from an Italian meal hungry. Spanish food, on the other hand, is about fun. I love the way they think about food in Spain. It is spicy, flavorful, and meant to be shared. I know a witch in Cadiz who makes the best tapas you will ever have. Then there is French food, which is all about technique. French dishes are meant to be savoured. Everything from the composition of the ingredients to the plating has a certain way it should be done. It is a challenge, but when done properly it can be some of the best food in the world."

Dean poked the tines of his fork into the seabass, pulled them out, then stabbed it again.

"One day, I want to find someone who speaks about me the way you talk about food."

"Perhaps you already have," Blaise said.

There was silence on Blaise's side of their wall that night.

**.oOo.**

Malfoy came in first on Friday. Dean made him the vanilla latte as it had become his favourite. Quaffle sized, seventeen Knuts, and a regular pain in Dean's ass.

"Blaise tells me you are Hot Abs Guy," Malfoy said. His eyes fell to Dean's waist as he said, "I told him that was impossible; you are too thin."

Dean placed the cup on the counter and said, "It takes more than seventeen Knuts to get me to lift my shirt, Malfoy. Wait … He really called me that?"

"Yes," Malfoy said with a nod. "He said you looked familiar but could not place you. I never even thought … I mean, I don't think about you like … I do admire that you walked over to his flat without a shirt."

"He answered the door wearing a sheet, so we were fairly equal," Dean quipped. "And he makes great food, so I figure we're even."

Draco stared at him for a moment.

"He cooked for you?"

"Twice now, yeah," Dean said. "Why?"

Draco spun the paper cup around in circles and admitted, "That is not something he does often."

"The men I hear on the other side of the wall expend quite a lot of energy, so I am sure he cooks for them, too."

Draco shook his head.

"No, he doesn't; cooking is intimate with him. Why the hell would he share that with you?"

That was a good question and Dean did not have the answer. It bounced around his head for a couple hours after Malfoy left. Dean pulled Romilda to the side just before closing. No one else was in the shop so he practically begged her for answers.

"You are Blaise's friend."

"Yes."

"What do you know about his mum?"

Romilda closed herself off immediately.

"He mentioned his mum at dinner last night and—"

"Dinner?!" Romilda whisper-shouted. "Blaise is cooking for you?"

"Why is that such a surprise?" Dean asked. He threw his hands in the air and walked back toward the counter. "Everyone keeps giving me hints without answers. I can't understand, Romi. I don't have time to translate what you are trying to tell me."

She leaned against the doors and said, "We are the breakup sex. You are the sort of person people want to date and make a life with; me and Blaise are the people who get shagged when you dump them. The world has a very narrow perception of who we are. Slut, slag, skank—"

"I would never say that about you, Romi," Dean insisted.

She smiled wanly and said, "It's okay, I have heard far worse. When being a good shag is what you're known for, you have to find something else that is intimate. Something else you can do for people you love to say they are special. I haven't found mine yet, but Blaise has. He cooks, Dean. And he will trip all over himself falling for you because you try so hard to make the world good for everyone. Even if it is nothing more than free mochas on Mondays."

"I'm seriously considering Treacle Tart Tuesdays," Dean mentioned.

"Don't try to laugh it off," Romi clapped back. "I can't tell you about his mum; that is something he will reveal in his own time. Just … Trust me when I say how rare it is to find someone who doesn't look at us like we have 'WHORE' written across our foreheads."

"Technically, it's my sex life we are using to make money," Dean quipped.

Romilda rolled her eyes.

"Fine, if you don't want to take it seriously, then don't."

"Take what seriously?" Dean asked. "I met him five days ago!"

"And Blaise is into you!" Romilda shouted. "He likes you. He cooks for you. He wants to be around you."

Dean crossed his arms and stared at the **2** key on the register.

"Did he say that?"

"He didn't have to."

There was silence from the other side of the wall on Friday night.

**.oOo.**

Dean needed to go grocery shopping. Saturday was the seventh day in his new flat and he already knew every takeaway place within a two-block radius. Just as he was about to leave, someone knocked on his door. Dean didn't know why he bothered looking through the peephole since there was only one person who came to his flat. He opened the door and Blaise was holding several plastic containers in various sizes.

"My hand slipped and I made double."

Dean should have shut the door right then. Blaise was a complicated mess of a person and he didn't need to be involved with someone like that. Dean liked being with Seamus because it was safe and steady … Until it wasn't. Perhaps Blaise was worth taking that risk one more time.

Dean opened the door.

Blaise plated the food and set the table in silence. Dean watched him while leaning against the wall. He liked that Blaise did not believe in unnecessary words. Blaise was quiet and focused, the complete opposite of Seamus.

"This is branzino," Blaise said once they were seated at the table. "It is more seabass."

"You and your seabass," Dean teased. "What else have we got?"

"Crusco pepper, lentils, and green curry sauce."

It was heavenly. They spoke about nothing for a bit. The latest single from the Weird Sisters, "All Hat, No Wand," was discussed at length. Blaise spent ten minutes talking about how difficult it was to find proper ingredients in England.

"Do you still want to go to my kickabout on Tuesday?" Dean asked.

"Of course!"

"Right, well, it's in Holland Park at six and my mates are bringing someone they want to set me up with."

Blaise's fingers stilled almost comically as he sliced the final pieces of his branzino.

"Is that something you are interested in?" he asked. Dean heard the disappointment in his voice even though Blaise tried to conceal it.

"Maybe," Dean admitted. "I don't know."

Without looking up from his plate, Blaise asked, "Would you be interested in me?"

Yes. Yes, a thousand times, yes. But Dean did not want to be slot number four in a harem.

"I don't know."

**.oOo.**

Dean got his hair cut on Sunday evening. Literally every person who came into the Silver Snitch on Monday commented on how nice it looked. They asked if he had a date and Dean could only mumble a half-hearted "sort of" before busying himself counting Sickles.

He met Blaise outside the park at 5:45 on Tuesday. Blaise Zabini in jeans was a fucking sight to behold. Dean stared at his ass for far longer than he should have, and Blaise let him. Blaise wore a black bomber jacket and white t-shirt with trainers that probably cost a week's wages. They stared at each other for a moment before Dean went in for a hug.

"Oh, Merlin's eyelash, you are a hugger," Blaise realized aloud. It squeaked out since Dean had a rather tight grip. He led Blaise over to the eleven-a-side pitch and thanked Merlin that someone had remembered to bring a few chairs. Then he caught sight of his friends talking to a very attractive man. He must've been a few inches shorter than Dean, but the closer they got the more Dean realized how much they had been lowballing it. If he wasn't standing next to Blaise, he'd insist this guy was the most gorgeous man he had ever seen.

Dean hugged his mates, said hi to everyone else, then made the introduction.

"Everyone, this is Blaise, my …" Dean did not know how to finish. He helplessly glanced over to his guest.

"Neighbor," Blaise finished for him. He shook hands and everyone seemed to like him well enough.

Dean made his way over to the new guy. Blond, brown eyes, a nice smile and a firm handshake. Oh, yes, this could work.

"Dean Thomas."

"Alex Edwards." The man dropped the handshake and smiled up at Dean. "Jake tells me you own a coffee shop?"

They had a nice conversation until Dean had to meet with the rest of his team. Jake sidled over to Dean, leaned in, and said,

"You forgot to mention your neighbor looks like Idris Elba and David Beckham had a baby."

"Slipped my mind," Dean said. He shrugged. "Two of the most gorgeous men in the country are here to watch me play. I'm gonna fall flat on my face."

"Dunno, mate," Leo said, joining the conversation. "Looks like they might get friendly."

Dean glanced over to see Blaise and Alex laughing together. They'd known each other for maybe thirty seconds. They sat in the chairs, leaning in, smiling …

"If they leave here together I'm taking a vow of celibacy."

"Oh come on!" Jake said, giving Dean a light shove. "You will find a nice bloke eventually, I promise. One who won't mind being bollocks-deep in your flat arse."

"It's not flat!" Dean insisted with a smile. "It is toned."

Their ninety minutes began and Dean pulled his t-shirt over his head. He tossed it onto the grass and didn't miss the open-mouthed staring from his "fan section." Dean could read the thoughts going through their heads as they thought about touching "Hot Abs Guy." Dean laughed then pushed those thoughts to the side so he could concentrate.

He did not try to impress his audience. Alright, perhaps a little. There was some fancy footwork that was unnecessary, not to mention all the times he turned to "check the clock" so Alex and Blaise could get a full-on view.

Just before half-time, Dean caught sight of a familiar pair walking alongside the pitch. He shook his head, convinced he was hallucinating. Dean stopped in the middle of the pitch and turned to see Seamus walking maybe a dozen metres away, hand-in-hand with Zacharias. Dean locked eyes with Seamus a moment later and air was suddenly very hard to come by. He felt like his knees may give out from the figurative blow he just took to the chest. He heard someone shout his name as though it came from the other end of a long tunnel.

Something collided with the side of Dean's head and everything went black.

**.oOo.**

The grass was sharp against his back, so Dean figured he must be lying somewhere on the pitch. Dean opened his eyes and squinted against the light. He blinked twice and could just barely make out the people hovering over him. He felt Leo's hands gentle around his head. Seamus, Blaise, Jake, Alex, and a couple of other players all had golden halos, backlit by the sunlight.

"I am so sorry, Dean!" said the girl who presumably kicked the ball. She was new. Chelsea? Kelsey? Something like that; names were fuzzy at the back of his brain.

"Not your fault," he mumbled. "I should've paid attention. He groaned in pain. God, his head ached.

"Are you alright?" Jake asked.

Dean opened his eyes again then closed them against the light.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." He paused then tilted his head a bit, which he regretted immediately. "Must say, I've got about ten different fantasies where I'm not wearing a shirt and there are a half-dozen men over top of me, but this is definitely not one of them."

"Yeah, he'll be fine," Leo echoed.

Jake offered Dean a hand and helped him stand. Dean looked around at all of them, took a step forward, and wobbled.

"God!" he shouted. "Holy fuck my head hurts. Whoever kicked that ball should go out for Man U."

"Probably a concussion," someone said. Dean couldn't tell who, but everyone nodded in agreement.

"I will take him home, then," Blaise said.

"Take 'im home?" Seamus asked. "You live with Zabini now?"

Seamus looked happy. He'd let his hair grow out a bit, grown some scruff, and he looked good. Dean wondered why Seamus never thought to try anything new while they were together. His heart stuttered a couple times and Dean swallowed thickly as Seamus eyed him disapprovingly.

"He is my—"

"No," Dean cut in. He placed a hand on Blaise's shoulder. "No need to explain. It's none of your business where I live now, Shea. What the hell are you even doing here?"

"_Shea?" someone asked._

"_That's Seamus?"_

"_The boyfriend?"_

"_Ex, now, innit?"_

"_He's shorter than I expected."_

"No, I know that," Seamus said, ignoring the chatter. "We just saw you, then you got hit and fell and I didn't … God, I'm not heartless, Dean. We just wanted to make sure you're alright."

"We, huh?" Dean asked, nodding toward Zacharias, who had tried to slowly back away. "Five bloody years and you never showed up to a match once! Now you just happen to stroll by? You and the man you left me for?!"

That drew a collective gasp from their small crowd.

"We were visiting friends!" Seamus insisted. "I didn't know—"

"You knew!" Dean accused. "God, when am I going to stop getting hurt because of you?" He turned on his heel and slowly walked toward the place he'd thrown his shirt.

Seamus followed him and shouted, "This was not my fault!"

"Everything else is!" Dean shouted. He turned to face Seamus again and the crowd seemed to have followed them. "You got your boyfriend, you got to keep the house, and you got all my furniture. The only thing I wanted was football! One place to escape from you and you've taken that away from me too! Are you happy now, Shea?!" Dean placed his palm against his forehead and grimaced. That took more out of him than he expected.

"You can have the furniture, hell, you can have the fucking house, Dean!" Seamus shouted back. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"I don't care what you wanted, I care what you did," Dean said. "I loved you so much that the possibility of there ever being someone else never crossed my mind. Obviously the same cannot be said of you, and that's the real story of us, isn't it? I gave everything and you gave about three-quarters."

"Maybe you're right," Seamus conceded.

"So now when I might finally, finally land a bloody date you show up! I don't want to see you, Seamus. I don't want to be around you. I don't want to hear your name or your voice until I find somebody else that makes me happy. Somebody I trust not to take it away."

Seamus opened his mouth to say something, but Leo walked around him and pressed his fingertips to Dean's hairline. Dean hissed at the contact.

"You're bleeding," Leo said, concerned. He wiped the blood off on his trousers. "Can you see properly?"

"Yeah, but everything's spinning a bit," Dean admitted.

"You're done for the day," Leo said.

"Dean," Seamus said, "I think we should—"

"Blaise?" Dean interrupted.

Blaise emerged from the crowd, ignoring Seamus and Zacharias as he passed. He stopped in front of Dean and put a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean wanted nothing more than to leave and forget the whole bloody day had even happened.

"Please take me home."


	4. Chapter 4

Blaise wrapped one arm around Dean's waist and Dean tossed an arm over his shoulders. Their walk to a decent Apparition point was slow and Blaise did not force conversation. Once they found a tree large enough to hide behind, Blaise said,

"I have to take you Sidealong."

"'s fine," Dean mumbled.

"Are you ready?"

Dean nodded slightly and felt Blaise's arm tighten around him. Before Dean could enjoy the proximity, however, the world squished in around him. Everything went dark and at some point he lost the feeling of Blaise around him.

Next thing he knew, Dean fell to his knees and retched up the contents of his stomach onto Blaise's trainers.

"Oh, God, so sorry …" Dean mumbled.

Blaise hoisted him up and placed an arm around his back. Dean sagged into him, grateful for the support as they slowly made their way into their building.

"Everything hurts," Dean muttered.

Blaise rubbed soothing circles into his lower back as they waited for the lift.

"Sorry about your fancy trainers," Dean said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You have a head injury and you are worried about my shoes?"

"Wasn't sexy," Dean admitted as they staggered into the lift.

"I would rather have you vomit on my trainers than you have to make your way home on your own," Blaise said. He pressed the four and sighed as the doors closed.

There was no focal point for Dean's pain. He felt everything down to the blisters on his toes. The doors opened, so the pair made their way to and then past the door to Dean's flat.

"Where are we going?"

"Since you do not have so much as an ice pack in your flat, we are going to mine."

Dean did not have the energy to argue.

Blaise toed off his soiled trainers in the entryway and said, "You need to shower. Bathroom is at the end of the hall on the left. I have to run to Mr. Mulpepper's so give me fifteen minutes. You will have clothes on the sink and I will leave an ice pack in the ice chest for your shoulder."

"My shoulder is fine," Dean insisted. It didn't hurt any more than the rest of him.

"You landed on it, Dean!" Blaise shouted. He closed his eyes for a moment. Finally, he said, "You just crumbled right there on the grass. One moment you were standing and the next … I've never felt anything like that. Thinking that something awful had happened to you … You were just lying on the ground, not moving, and … Seamus was there glaring holes into the side of my head."

Then Dean remembered why he was angry in the first place.

"He shouldn't have been there."

"And you should be resting," Blaise countered. "Fifteen minutes and I will be back. If you get dizzy or fall or—"

"I'm concussed, Blaise, not Confunded."

"I just want you to be safe, alright?" he admitted. "If something happened to you …" Blaise couldn't finish the thought. He shook his head and said, "Shower and wait for me to get back."

"Okay."

He didn't understand what Blaise needed to do, but Dean found it nice not to think for himself right then. Blaise left and Dean carefully made his way to the bathroom.

The moment Dean stepped beneath the hot shower spray, the tension left his body. He glanced at the alarmingly vast selection of products in shelves along the back wall. Most had Italian labels so Dean screwed off the cap of a bottle that looked like soap. He sniffed and smiled because it smelled like wheat and honey … _Like Blaise._ Dean quickly scrubbed the dirt off his body as the dizziness sat in again. He made sure to get the dried blood off his forehead and the cut there seemed small enough.

He stepped out of the shower and saw that his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt had been placed on the side of the sink. Dean winced as he puled the shirt over his head. His shoulder throbbed as he was finally able to pinpoint the source of his pain. He wished he hadn't. Once dressed, Dean made for the kitchen, found the ice pack, then collapsed onto Blaise's sofa. He put the ice against his shoulder and wished he had another for his head.

Blaise did not have a lot of furniture, but the space did not feel empty. The sofa was a beautiful emerald green and Dean kicked his feet up onto the marble coffee table. Everything about the flat, or as much as Dean had seen, was just enough to be comfortable. There was a lot of room to breathe, but, it felt thought-out and lived-in. Simple and classic, exactly what he would expect from Blaise.

Except for the kitchen. The fridge was organized but practically overflowing. There were more spices lining the walls and pantry door than Dean could have imagined. If the rest of Blaise's home was comfy, his kitchen was controlled chaos.

"Dean?!" Blaise shouted from the front door.

"In here!" he shouted back.

Blaise sped into the living area holding a bottle of blue liquid. He exhaled heavily when he caught sight of Dean.

"Good, you found the ice pack."

"You have a nice flat."

"Thank you," Blaise replied with a smile. "Oh! Here, swallow some of this."

Dean hesitantly accepted the potion bottle.

"What is it?"

"Calming Drought. Bastien says you will be more sensitive to stress and socializing for a couple days, so other than rest, this is the best I can do for you."

Dean laughed and said, "'Stress and socializing' is literally my job description. It is just me and Romilda at the shop so I have to be there tomorrow."

"Dean Thomas, I will tape you to my bed if I must. You are not going anywhere for the next couple of days."

"Blaise—"

"Romilda will take care of it. She has never run into a problem she cannot solve. Sip some of the Calming Drought and I will do up the bed so you can rest."

"Bed?" Dean asked, downing more of the potion than was likely recommended. "I'm fine on the sofa."

"Tell me that again in half an hour," Blaise challenged.

The effects of the potion were immediate. The pain in Dean's shoulder lessened considerably, as did the throbbing of his brain against his skull. It sort of felt like he was melting into the sofa. He smiled and Blaise chuckled.

"Feels good?"

"Feels very good," Dean said, a little punch-drunk. "If I'd've known living next to you would be this nice I would have moved in sooner."

"You said you and Seamus separated over two months ago," Blaise said. "If I may ask, where were you before you moved here?"

Dean groaned and shifted so he was lying on some of the pillows. He tossed his feet up onto the other end and wriggled his shoulders until he was comfortable. He stared at the ceiling as he answered.

"The first couple of weeks I thought it would blow over. He'd shag Zacharias, get it out of his system, then come back to me. I'd yell at him and everything would be fine again. I convinced Gin and Harry to let me stay with them until he came to his senses. After two weeks, they forced me to realize my relationship had ended and I needed to find some place to live.

"After that, I bounced around for a few weeks, sulking. Stayed with Luna for a few days, but really, you can only stay with Luna about three days before she drives you mad. Then I was at Angelina's for about four days. I stayed with Hermione for about four weeks before I landed at Ron's. He helped me scrounge up some basic furniture and even went over to the house to get my personal shit back from Seamus so I wouldn't have to see him. That's why I let him keep the furniture and the house and all our stuff; so I wouldn't have to think about him anymore."

"You are fortunate to have so many good friends," Blaise said.

"I am. The same cannot be said of my boyfriend."

Blaise laughed and said, "No, I suppose not."

"I just don't understand how it happened. How was I blind for so long? Is it going to be like this every time I trust someone to love me? My sisters always liked Seamus but my mum never did. My mum's right about most things; I should've listened to her."

"My mother was the opposite," Blaise admitted. "She married men then killed them for their money. I suppose it is a good thing I never listened to her."

Dean didn't really know what to say to that. The ache in his head had disappeared in favour of his brain sort of floating inside his skull. Dean tilted his body so he could look at Blaise, and waited for him to speak.

"My mother was a whore," he admitted. "She left me with whomever would take me while she left to be with that year's target. It is something I have never been able to shake off."

"Is that why you thought I would care that you shag different people?" Dean asked.

Blaise nodded.

"Do you like being unattached?" Dean asked. If he wasn't high on Calming Drought he would have kicked himself, but Blaise did not seem offended by the question.

"I …" Blaise trailed off. He slid back on the coffee table and crossed his legs. He shrugged and said, "I don't hate it. I suppose I never learned to do anything else."

"D'you want to?"

"No one has ever been willing to try."

"Hmm …" Dean trailed off. His eyelids were suddenly very heavy. "Doesn't seem like you answered the question."

Blaise admitted, "I don't like when people cancel." He frowned. "I think I would like to have someone who could not cancel on me. Because at the end of the day they come home to me, I mean."

"Perfectly sensible," Dean said with a yawn.

Blaise laughed.

"Go to sleep, _zuccherino_."

The way he said it made Dean think there were no other options. His eyes were half-closed already, anyhow, it was so easy to just fall further down into the pillows …

**.oOo.**

Dean woke up in a bed that was definitely not his own. He pried his eyes open because while all he wanted to do was go back to sleep, he had woken up in enough unfamiliar places during the war to know the importance of understanding his surroundings.

The ceiling looked like the one in his flat. He ran his fingers across the duvet, thick enough that hardly any of Dean's body heat could escape. The sheets were unbelievably soft and his head had sunk just the right amount into the pillow. He turned his head to the side to see the only light was coming from a small reading lamp in the far corner of the room.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

Blaise leapt up from his chair and walked to Dean's side. He placed a hand on Dean's good shoulder and said,

"Sleep a few more hours."

"You're just trying to keep me in your bed, aren't you?" Dean teased. He leaned back into the pillows, pulled the duvet up to his neck, and sighed contentedly.

"You've figured me out, Dean Thomas," Blaise replied cheekily. He paused, got a curious look on his face, then laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just …" Blaise laughed and said, "You smell like me."

**.oOo.**

Blaise made eggs and bacon the following morning. It roused Dean out of bed and he stumbled to the kitchen. He watched Blaise casually flip some bacon in a pan and smiled. This was much better than takeaway.

Without turning around, Blaise asked, "Are you just going to stand there and stare at my ass?"

Dean collapsed into a chair and yawned, so Blaise didn't press him for an answer. They ate together in comfortable silence. He liked those moments because Blaise was more like himself in the quiet. He was not rigid and he was no longer afraid to smile. Not to say Blaise didn't smile when he was speaking. He could be flirtatious or coy, but Blaise's smile was different when no one was looking. It was softer, like someone had told a stupid joke he didn't want to laugh at but couldn't help himself.

"I am going to work," Dean revealed.

Blaise put down his cutlery and glared at him.

"Just to check in on things. You can come with me."

"Fine," Blaise conceded.

Dean raised an eyebrow and asked, "That's it? No fighting me about getting rest or shoving more Calming Draught down my throat?"

"No." Blaise shook his head. "I am not kidnapping you."

"Good then."

Later, when they walked down Diagon Alley side-by-side, Dean had to stop himself from taking Blaise's hand. He swung open the door to the Silver Snitch and held it open for Blaise to walk through.

Romilda caught sight of them, gave them a quick wave, and Dean did the only thing he could think to do: he got in line. It grew quickly behind them but moved just as fast. The elderly witch behind them patted Dean's side so he turned to face her.

"How are you today, dear?"

"Very well, thank you," Dean replied. He recognized her immediately and grinned. "Your usual tea today?"

"I would try something new, but your valerian tea always makes me feel better when I have a tough morning. And who is this lovely young man with you?"

Blaise blushed and Dean could not hold back a grin. It was the first time Dean had actually seen him embarrassed.

"This is Blaise Zabini, Mrs. Steckenrider. Blaise, Mrs. Steckenrider was one of my first customers."

He held out his hand but she pulled Blaise into a hug.

"Oh, it is so nice to meet you!"

"The same to you," Blaise said, patting her awkwardly on the back.

She pulled away and said, "Dean, you have a very handsome man, here. It is about time you found a new boyfriend."

"Oh, no, I am not—" Blaise began, but Dean interrupted him.

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed.

Before Blaise could say anything else, it was their turn at the counter. Romilda grinned and pointed to the three people running around the back making various drinks.

"Hi, boss! Blaise!"

"Who are these people?" Dean asked.

"Recruits!" Romilda said excitedly. "I picked my top five, and these are the three I was going to interview today. Figured I would give them a trial run since you are out for a bit. Working out quite well. Except I can't trust Josh back there to take the register. Bastard can't tell his Sickles from his nuts."

"Knuts?" Dean asked.

"Sure, that's what I said," Romilda dismissed. "Anyhow, what can I get you?" She held her Sharpie prone against the cup, ready for an order.

"One vanilla latte. Bludger-sized, please," Blaise ordered. Dean scoffed and Blaise said, "What? Draco likes them so I figure I should give one a go."

"I will have an asphodel tea, Snitch-sized," Dean said.

"You got it, boss!"

Dean watched as the potential trainees completed their orders. Blaise watched with rapt attention, so he tried to narrate.

"That machine there," he pointed, "does the lattes and espressos. That clear container is the water tank, the round part up top holds the coffee beans, and that lever there grinds the beans. As for the tea, well, I make it all here at the shop."

"That is … amazing," Blaise said. He seemed genuinely impressed and Dean's heart did a little jump. "How are your recruits doing so far?"

"Surprisingly well. I should have asked for an egg bite to see how well they bake."

When Romilda handed over their beverages, he asked,

"What do you think of them?"

"Well, two just graduated from Hogwarts, then Alice's husband died suddenly. She can't say why, so I think he was a hitwizard. She's got to work to support her child. He's ten, so he's got a year before he goes off to school. I like them all well enough, trust them not to steal from the register, and let me tell you, Alice made these egg bites with bacon bits that just melt in your mouth!"

"You like all three of them?" Dean confirmed.

"I owled them all this morning, told them to come in, and these were the three that showed up. So hell yes, Dean, I like all three of them."

"Great, they're hired."

"Wait, what?" Romilda asked.

"You can set up a shift schedule. Ten Galleons a week to start, four weeks vacation, obviously the schedule is flexible—"

"You'd hire them just like that?" Blaise asked, dumbfounded.

"They came at a moment's notice, didn't they?" Dean said. "Romi says they won't steal from the register and it's got a protective spell around it anyhow. They can pull levers and make tea, and that is all I need to know."

"Right, well, I'm going to make them sweat it a bit anyway," Romilda teased. She looked up at Dean and said, "You really are the best boss."

"You make it easy, Romi," Dean said. He placed a Galleon in the **YES** jar before they left and Blaise's blush deepened. Once the doors shut behind them, Dean took Blaise's hand. Blaise threaded their fingers together like it was second nature and neither of them said a word.

"This is quite delicious," Blaise admitted, looking down at his latte. He licked some foam from his lips.

"Tomorrow you should try the tea."

"Am I coming with you tomorrow?" Blaise asked.

"I'd like that."

"Then it's a date."

They strolled down the cobblestone street for a bit, each of them with a slightly dopey grin on their face. Blaise didn't feel safe the way Seamus had. In fact, Dean was fucking terrified just holding hands with him. He had not said anything along the lines of "exclusive" or "boyfriend" or even "Can I kiss you?" But on the other side of that fear was something oddly freeing. Nothing to be labeled yet, but Blaise made Dean feel good in a way Seamus had not.

They passed by the new stores on the west end and Dean paused to glance into the window of a furniture shop. There, right in the window display, was a large wooden table. Dean squinted to read the tag describing it.

"The top is made from recycled Quidditch brooms."

"Inventive," Blaise commented. He rubbed circles into the back of Dean's hand.

"I haven't bought any new furniture since …" Dean admitted. He didn't have to say it all aloud for Blaise to understand.

"Do you want the table, Dean?" he asked.

Dean stared at it through the window for several moments. It would easily sit eight people and was just the right size for the dining area in his flat. Maybe that was the first step to making the new flat feel like home. However, buying furniture meant he was moving on. There was no way to return to the past once he embraced life after Seamus. Was he ready for that?

"I can't afford it."

Blaise squeezed his hand reassuringly and asked, "But do you want it?"

The table legs were shaped like a Snitch's wings. It was everything Dean didn't know he needed until he saw it in front of him. He turned to Blaise and said,

"I want the table."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: There will be more than five chapters, likely seven or eight._

* * *

Dean had worked every day for seven weeks and forgot how good it felt to slow down.

He did not buy the table. It was far too extravagant for someone still trying to piece their life together. But there was the notion of a day when he had the money and a bigger place … Perhaps a house? A real house with someone who would never make him want to leave.

Dean took Blaise to lunch at his favourite sandwich shop in London. Blaise made a face every time food passed their table, thinking about the ways he could have done it better.

"Will you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Looking like I've taken you to eat out of a rubbish bin," Dean teased. "This isn't food to be judged, it's food to be shoveled into your mouth at high speed."

"Fine," Blaise said with an exaggerated sigh.

Dean laughed and Blaise enjoyed the meal. He'd never admit it, of course, but he liked not having to care. That was their whole day together: carefree. It was nice, and that's what Dean wanted … _Nice._

Blaise had some business to attend to that evening and Dean didn't feel the need to pry. He used his own shower and his own soap, but once in his pyjamas his feet led him next door. They had been at each other's flats so often over the past week, Dean thought they might as well put a door in one of the walls so they could move freely between them. Dean swiped the Calming Drought off Blaise's kitchen counter and downed the remaining contents. He barely had time to make it to the sofa before his eyes fell shut.

He woke up intermittently. Dean heard the door open then shut, but couldn't manage to pry his eyelids apart. Instead he just listened as Blaise strolled through the flat.

"_Minchia!"_ Blaise shouted, unprepared to see Dean on the sofa. "You scared me." Blaise came over and lightly ran his fingers through Dean's hair. "Are you feeling well?"

"Just fine," Dean mumbled.

"Thank you for a wonderful day," Blaise whispered. He placed a blanket over Dean and patted his good shoulder. "And you even came home to me at the end."

"Mmm … Just really like your sofa," Dean teased before drifting back into sleep.

**.oOo.**

"Do you ever wear shirts to sleep?"

Dean groaned as he sat up. He glanced down to see the blanket had slid halfway down his chest, then looked up to see Blaise biting into an apple.

"I do in the winter."

"Pity."

"Maybe I wouldn't if there was another way to stay warm."

Blaise took another bite of his apple with a sassy smile that vanished just as quickly as it appeared. Dean had never prided himself on subtlety.

"What time is it?"

"10:34."

"Fucking hell!" Dean shouted. He scrambled down Blaise's hallway, made his way to his own flat, then threw open the door. He quickly brushed his teeth then ran his fingers through his hair. It would have to do; he couldn't wait any longer. Knowing he should be at the shop gave him an uncomfortable adrenaline rush. Every part of him shouted _MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!_

Someone knocked on his door.

"IT'S OPEN!" Dean shouted, running into his bedroom. He pulled a t-shirt from his closet and scooped some jeans off the floor. He slid off his pyjama bottoms and dressed in about ten seconds. Blaise appeared in his bedroom doorway. "You really don't have to knock."

"I am sorry for not waking you up sooner, but it has only been about two days since you were hit and I thought you should have some more peace."

"You're concerned," Dean said. He smiled and breezed past Blaise on his way to the living area. "I appreciate it, really, but I also want to keep my business running. And if Romilda ran into any problems I …"

Dean stopped speaking. Right there in the middle of his flat, in what he called the "dining area," was the table he'd seen in the shop window. He didn't know what to do. The rest of his flat was just furniture cobbled together from whatever the Weasley family could spare and Hermione's parents had been willing to part with. None of it went together but this one part of his flat suddenly looked like it was ready to be lived in.

Blaise anxiously crossed his arms and said, "I know I probably shouldn't have … I mean, I should have, really, you have been so nice …"

Dean didn't know what to say.

"I did not make this much of a home for you at the beginning, what with the sex marathon against your wall and everything. And you said you want to move on from Seamus so the first step in doing that is finding another home. And this is not a home, it is a few rooms with a bed and chairs. Hell, your refrigerator is nothing but water and leftover takeaway boxes! In the little time I have spent with you, seeing that table was the first time you looked like you actually wanted to move on."

Dean hadn't moved. It was there. No chairs or anything, just the table itself. A gorgeous dark wood for the table, and a special glass used to make the wing-shaped legs. Blaise shifted on his feet.

"Could you … Could you say something? I know I should have asked you first, but I wanted to surprise you and I thought—"

"Thank you," Dean said. He pressed his fingers against the wood and repeated, "Thank you, so much."

Blaise wanted to hear more, but Dean couldn't find the right words. Seamus still had a firm grip on his heart, and goddamn it hurt. He heard the door shut after Blaise left.

**.oOo.**

Blaise did not go to the Silver Snitch with Dean that morning. Everything was fine as Romilda trained the new recruits. He met them, liked them, and officially hired them. Dean went into the back to make some tea, do some baking, and otherwise waste time for an hour or so.

Dean went grocery shopping. He plucked things off the shelves and found himself thinking, "What would Blaise make with this?" He walked back to his flat, bobbed his head to the elevator music, trying to concentrate on anything but his far too gorgeous neighbor. Dean put everything into the refrigerator and it still looked sort of empty. He pushed the door shut and hopped onto the countertop.

His sofa was navy blue and in decent condition. It had been Hermione's parents' and they had no use for it. The coffee table came from the Burrow, which was actually something Charlie had made from wood they used to whack gnomes out of the garden. The telly was also from the Grangers and the bed was an "I'm sorry your boyfriend's a complete cock" gift from Angelina. Each piece had its own story but none of it felt like Dean's.

He thought about Blaise's flat. Clean, polished, lived-in … Everything felt like Blaise. The wheat and honey soap in the shower. The fancy toothpaste on the sink and the dozens of spices scattered throughout the kitchen. The copies of _Wizards Quarterly _and _Gnome and Garden_ tossed onto the coffee table had more dog-eared pages than not.

What would it take for Dean's flat to feel like that? He pondered it for several minutes. What was he waiting for? The answer was Blaise. His unbelievably gorgeous, talented neighbor had made Dean realize everything he was missing. Blaise's flat felt like home because it felt like Blaise.

Dean walked out of his flat and made his way over to Blaise's door. He knocked softly this time and waited. He heard Blaise arrive at the other side and pause. There was a brief moment when Dean worried he would be turned away. Soon after, Blaise opened the door looking like a chastened puppy: not quite understanding what he did wrong but nonetheless sorry that he did it. If Dean hadn't been sure of what he wanted before, he certainly was right then.

"Hi."

Blaise's finger tightened around the door as he replied, "Hello."

Dean wrapped his hand around the back of Blaise's neck and pulled him into a kiss. Blaise was motionless for a moment, shell-shocked, so Dean pulled back.

Blaise asked, "What was that for?"

"Nothing," Dean said with a smile. "I just wanted to snog you. Mind if I do it some more?"

Blaise opened the door and said, "Come in," but didn't sound enthusiastic about it.

Dean's heart sank into his stomach as Blaise walked further into his flat. Dean shut the door then followed, wondering what, exactly he had misinterpreted. Then again, Blaise had rejected him once before. Dean had some significant blinders when it came to love. He watched as Blaise paced in front of the sofa.

"You asked me before if I was interested in being 'attached.' I said I did not know, but now I think I do."

"Okay …" Dean said, confused.

Blaise stopped pacing and looked Dean in the eyes.

"I have been thinking about it since you started pounding on my door all those days ago. I cannot get you out of my head! The idea of you and me … I expected it to go away. I made you food to apologize. Then I liked you so I made more food because I thought we could be friends."

"We can be friends," Dean insisted, praying his disappointment did not come through in his voice.

"No, you misunderstand. Dean, I bought you the table because it would help you to move on, and I _want_ you to move on. With me."

"Okay?" Dean asked, more confused than ever, but something tugged at his heartstrings. Something that felt an awful lot like hope.

Blaise rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and groaned.

"I do not want to go out for coffee, have a quick date, then come back so I can shag you like I do everyone else. I want to take you out and show you off to my friends. I want to make you dinner every night and take care of you when you get hit by footballs. I want to be part of your life and make you part of mine."

"Okay." Dean nodded.

"Wait, sorry, why are you here?" Blaise asked, flush with embarrassment.

"To thank you for giving me something that feels like it's mine."

"You deserve that much, Dean," Blaise insisted.

"You are right. I do," he agreed. "And if you want me to be your boyfriend you should ask because I promise I am going to say yes, Blaise. I promise. It'll be hard and weird and you're gonna have to deal with me getting caught up in the past at times. But I think this can work. I love that you talk to me, no secrets or guessing, you just trust that I will understand what you say."

"So I should ask you?" Blaise confirmed.

"Yes."

"To be my boyfriend?"

"Yes."

Blaise rushed into the kitchen and returned moments later with a purple tulip plucked from a small vase. He dropped to one knee and offered up the flower.

"Dean Thomas, will you do me the great honour of becoming my boyfriend?"

Dean laughed at the makeshift proposal and took the proffered tulip.

"Yes, you adorable git. Now get up here so I can snog you properly this time."

Blaise stood up and Dean pulled him into another kiss, one with purpose. They were like that for a minute, deeper kisses as they stood with Dean's arm wrapped protectively around Blaise's shoulders. He pulled back the slightest bit to see tears tracking their way down Blaise's face.

"What's wrong?"

"I just didn't know it would feel this good," Blaise said. He pressed his forehead into Dean's shoulder. "Until you said yes, I didn't believe anyone could want to be with me like that. Like this."

"You just needed to ask." Dean hugged Blaise even closer and said, "Moving on will be so much better with you."

**.oOo.**

Dean hadn't been shopping for new clothes since well before the breakup. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became that Seamus had fallen out of love with him far before things ended. Dean also realized he knew something was wrong. Months before they separated, he stopped shopping. He stopped getting his hair cut at regular intervals; stopped caring about what he looked like. It clearly didn't matter to his boyfriend. He solicited Romilda's help because she knew what Blaise liked.

"He likes _you_," she insisted as he came out in yet another suit jacket and nice trousers. "None of this feels like you."

"No, it doesn't," Dean agreed. "But Blaise always looks like he just stepped off the cover of _Wizards Quarterly_, and I'm …" He threw his hands in the air. His go-to look was a t-shirt and jeans that had more holes than pockets.

"Right, that is where you've gone wrong," Romilda said. "Blaise doesn't want you to be a version of him. He can get that any time he wants and he's had more wealthy Pureblood ass than you would ever care to know."

"Thanks for that," Dean quipped.

"You should want to be a version of _you_ that is, I don't know, elevated."

"Elevated?"

"Yes. The first thing that has to go is these trousers. You have amazing legs and they are swallowed by all this excess fabric. Your legs are made for jeans, so let's get nicer jeans, yeah?"

"Okay," Dean agreed.

Romilda grabbed three different pairs of jeans: blue, black, and grey. They looked far more promising than the trousers he had on.

"I can work with those."

"Fantastic!" Romilda shouted. She clapped her hands together then said, "Second, that jacket is horrible. Take it off, just … God, no one should ever put you in a basic suit. It's a crime. Third, the shirt has to go. Actually, come to think of it … I love you in t-shirts. Oh, Merlin, Dean … Your shoes. What the hell are we going to do about your shoes?!"

One hour and a nervous breakdown later, Dean surveyed himself in front of the mirrors.

_Not bad._

_Pretty fucking great, actually._

Romi had set him up with a pair of nice black shoes and a pair of socks he was definitely planning to switch out. They settled on black jeans which tapered toward the end and he cuffed up to reveal the socks. Later, they bought him a t-shirt with a drawing of a broom, surrounded by the phrase, "I'm a keeper!" They threw a structured black jacket on top and Dean couldn't help but think he looked like he belonged at Blaise's side.

"Do you still feel like Dean Thomas?" Romilda asked.

"I do."

"Then my work here is done!" she said. She patted Dean on the arm and asked, "Are you nervous?"

"Hellishly so, I'm afraid," he admitted. "Mostly about the end of the night."

"Oh, _those_ nerves!" Romilda teased. "Don't be anxious about it, Dean. Let him lead and everything will be better than you imagine."

"I have imagined it more than once," Dean said.

Romilda laughed as they made their way to the cashier.

"Seamus and I were together for five years, and unlike him, I wasn't shagging someone else during that time," Dean said, a little bitter. "I haven't had anyone since and I haven't had sex I truly enjoyed in Merlin only knows how long. When Blaise … When we …"

"When you finally get to take a ride on the Zabini Express," Romilda offered.

"Right, well, I'm afraid the ride may be a bit shorter than he's expecting."

Romilda sighed and placed their purchases on the counter.

"He is so into you, Dean," she said as the cashier rang up the items. "I shouldn't say that; I should let you see it for yourself, but we both know I am not that sort of person. Blaise feels safe with you and he trusts you. When the time comes for you to be together, he will make you feel safe."

"It is not the safety thing that concerns me, Romi," Dean admitted. "I don't want to embarrass myself."

"That's my point!" Romilda said. "You just need to trust him. He'll go slow when you need it; he is great at reading what people want. And if you're a bit ahead of things who fucking cares? You'll enjoy it and Blaise will enjoy watching you."

"That'll be two hundred ninety-five," the cashier said. She looked up at Dean and said, "Be sure to use protection."

Dean left the store with two full shopping bags, and he was very red in the face. He and Romilda walked in silence for a bit then sat on a bench to people-watch.

"He scares you, doesn't he?" Romilda asked.

"In some ways," Dean admitted. "What if I'm not good enough? Good-looking enough, a good enough fuck—"

"Stop being nervous about the sex," Romilda insisted. "You could come thirty seconds in and Blaise would still think you are the best man to walk the earth since whomever invented the cheese grater."

Dean doubled-over in laughter. It took him several moments to regain his composure. He wiped his eyes and said,

"Even without the sex, he has never been in a long-term relationship and I've only ever had one. What if we do this the wrong way? What if he only likes me half as much as he thinks he does?"

"He likes you twice as much as he thinks he does," Romilda countered. "Why don't you just tell me what you are afraid of, Dean."

He sighed.

"I am afraid he will find something in me that he doesn't like, then he will leave me, too."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: The last half of this fic contains explicit sexytimes, so if that's not your jam you'll know where to stop. Also this chapter has not been edited so please forgive any errors._

* * *

Date night.

It had been exactly three weeks since Dean had pounded on Blaise's door, nearly twelve weeks since his last relationship ended, and he could not remember ever being this nervous for a date. Not just with Seamus, but with anyone. Blaise hadn't told him where they were going, so Dean was completely in the dark. Not even Romilda had been willing to divulge that secret. Dean tied his shoes then grabbed his wallet before leaving the flat. He locked the door behind him then slowly made his way the four metres to Blaise's door.

He knocked once and the door swung open.

"Hi!" Blaise said with a huge grin on his face.

"Hi," Dean answered in kind.

Blaise surveyed him up and down before saying, "You look absolutely amazing."

"As do you, but 's nothing unusual."

"Flatterer," Blaise accused before kissing Dean on the cheek. He pulled a picnic basket from inside the flat and said, "We only have a few minutes to spare before—wait, on your socks … Are those …"

"Footballs," Dean confirmed.

Blaise laughed.

"Wicked!"

Blaise took Dean's hand and his heart did this little pitter-patter that felt like it was both skipping beats and working double-time. They walked to the lift in comfortable silence and Dean anxiously tapped his toe in time to the elevator music. They Disapparated from the lobby and, thank Merlin, Dean kept all his food down this time. He looked around and assumed they were in some sort of park.

"Welcome to the Marjoribanks Gardens," Blaise said. That explained the picnic basket. "This is my favourite place in Wizarding England. It is beautiful, quiet, and ethereal."

"Like you," Dean said without thinking.

Blaise was definitely blushing. He led Dean through the entryway and once inside, Dean understood what he meant. There were large green trees everywhere, as though someone had tucked a forest right in the middle of a busy street. It appeared at least a block wide in either direction, and stretched out for Merlin only knew how far in front of them.

They walked up some steps that wound a path through the trees, lit on either side by small purple lamps. Dean heard the running water minutes before they arrived at the small river. They stopped in the middle of a bridge so Dean could peer over at the multi-coloured fish swimming below.

"That one there, is a Flying Seahorse," Blaise said, pointing to a bright yellow creature. "She is my favourite. Her name is Daisy and I once saw her fly right out of the water and into a tourist's face. He fell into the river and had to be fished out; nearly pissed myself I laughed so hard."

"You named the seahorse?" Dean asked.

Blaise shrugged and revealed, "I spend a lot of time here. I have been on the tour seventeen times. You see that fish there? The pink one?"

Dean finally caught sight of the large, catfish-looking creature through the water and nodded.

"His name is N Chips."

Dean laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bridge himself. Some people walking behind them rolled their eyes at his outburst, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care. Those rare times when Blaise was sure enough of himself to make a joke were moments Dean treasured. As they reached the end of the bridge, the gardens opened up in front of them and the path split in three different directions. Blaise pointed to the left and said,

"Over that way is the fountain, probably my least favourite part of the park. The shops and museum, plus the restaurant are also that direction. Down the middle here is the waterfall, the Goshawk Monument, and Sapworthy Pond. We, however, are going to the right."

Blaise led the way but Dean said, "I dunno, a pond sounds rather romantic."

"Have I ever led you wrong, _zuccherino _?"

"That puntarelle stuff from last Friday was not a shining moment for you," Dean teased.

Blaise playfully whacked him with the picnic basket.

"It just means we need to refine your palette."

They were quiet for a bit, walking hand-in-hand until they came upon a large area of grass. Blaise pulled two blankets out of the picnic basket and spread them out on the grass. Dean sat on one and eyed the basket hopefully. Blaise opened the basket and pulled out two large glasses filled with thick white-brown liquid that looked like the world's worst milkshake.

"One for you and one for me!" Blaise said excitedly.

Dean sighed.

"The things I am willing to do for you," he teased before taking a sip. His eyes went wide at the sugary-sweet taste as he took another, much larger sip. It was freezing cold and tasted like a fizzy drink. "Bloody hell, this is actually good!"

"It is called horchata," Blaise said. "I have a friend in Valencia who makes it. Now, take one of these and dip it in." He offered Dean what appeared to be a breadstick but felt more like a sponge cake.

"You want me to dip this in the white stuff?" Dean confirmed.

Blaise nodded, Dean obliged him, and—

"Oh my God!" Dean took another bite of the cake. "Thish ish so fuckin' good!" he shouted between bites. He dipped it back in the horchata and said, "I forgive you for the puntarelle rubbish."

"Not rubbish," Blaise quipped. "And the cake bits are called fartons. Sweet and easy to make. Hurry up and finish, we only have about ten minutes before sundown."

"What happens at sundown?"

"Some things you just have to see, _zuccherino _."

"Why do you call me that?" Dean asked, reaching for another farton.

Blaise twirled one of the cake pieces in his horchata before answering.

"I suppose literally the translation is 'little sugar,' but it is more akin to 'sweetheart.'"

Dean was half-tempted to shag Blaise right there on the grass. They finished the meal and stowed everything but the blankets in the picnic basket. Blaise told Dean to lie back and wait, so they watched the sunset in silence. Darkness overtook everything and Dean reached out for Blaise's hand. He twined their fingers together just as a small purple speck appeared overtop of the treeline. Then another, then a blue one, then a pink one, then green …

"Fairies," Dean realized aloud.

Fairies of at least a dozen colours came out of the trees to buzz around the sky overtop of them. They mingled with the stars, creating a light show unlike anything Dean had ever seen. They flew in circles, then formed intricate shapes as they danced across the night sky.

"It's beautiful," Dean said. "I bet you take all your hot dates here," he teased.

"No."

"Oh. Just me then?"

"I believe you will find a lot of things are 'just you,' Dean Thomas."

They watched the pulsating light show for a few more minutes. Dean listened to the steady pace of Blaise's breathing, a complete contrast to his own frantically beating heart.

"May I tell you something a bit off-topic?" Blaise asked.

"Of course."

"When did you hire Romi?"

"About two years ago," Dean said. "The Silver Snitch really started to catch on and I couldn't handle all the work. She was perfect in most ways and tolerable in everything else."

Blaise giggled.

"That is the best description of Romilda Vane I have ever heard."

Dean looked up at the fairies lighting the sky. It was a rainbow of shooting stars, creatures free of boundaries and worry. He thought of how wonderful it must be to call the sky home.

"She adores you," Blaise said. "She was happy to get a job, but even happier to be working for you. The next time I saw her she said, 'He is the nicest person I've ever met and if he wasn't practically engaged I would tell you to ask him out.'"

"Really?"

"Yep," Blaise said, popping his lips on the 'P'.

"I would have been flattered, but I never would have considered it."

"If I asked you out then?"

"Right. Once you make a commitment to someone, your focus and your heart should remain with them. If you start thinking of someone else you have to end it, otherwise people end up like me. Hurt for so long, thinking there's no hope to recapture that sort of love again."

"I am not sure I agree," Blaise admitted.

"Oh?"

"I like thinking you compare me to Seamus, or anyone else for that matter. You look at what you had, what you could have, and at the end of the day you still choose me. That means more to me than you closing yourself off to other people."

"Huh." Dean considered it. He rolled onto his side to look at Blaise, who was still staring at the sky. "Do you compare me to other people?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"People who pop into my mind. Sometimes I think about how polite you are to everyone and it reminds me of this guy named Riley. He always says 'please' and 'thank you' and 'I would like it if you would fuck me,' during sex."

Dean laughed and said, "I don't know if I'm quite that polite."

"Well sometimes I like it," Blaise admitted rather bashfully. "It is nice to be appreciated for the skills I bring to the table."

"You bring plenty more."

"Thank you for saying that," Blaise whispered. "This is the first date I have ever been on that feels right. Does it feel right to you?"

Dean looked up at the sky, where the fairies nearly outnumbered the stars.

"This feels perfect."

**.oOo.**

Dean began to tremble the moment he stepped into Blaise's flat. He stared at the bedroom door as his mind bounced between hesitance and need.

"Dean?" Blaise asked, suddenly appearing in his sightline. "Are you certain you want to do this? You look like you may vomit.

"You do know what that looks like."

Blaise laughed and said, "Yes, I do. Are you nervous?"

Dean nodded. Blaise took his hand and led him over to the bedroom doorway.

"Does this room look any different from the other times you have been here?"

"No."

"Am I looking at you any differently?'

Dean shook his head.

"Do you think I will look at you differently after this?"

"I know you won't," Dean said, "but I don't have much confidence in my ability right now."

"Okay." Blaise nodded. "Okay, we will go slow and we can stop whenever you want. Just take off your shoes and your jacket."

Instructions. Instructions were good, since Dean was not sure his brain was operating at full capacity. Dean toed off his shoes then tossed his jacket over a chair. Blaise did the same then pulled Dean into the bedroom by the hem of his t-shirt. Something changed right then. Blaise looked at him with the same expression Dean had when he got his Hogwarts letter. Blaise was looking at Dean like he made everything else in Blaise's life make sense. Dean couldn't seem to find the word "backatcha."

Then Blaise's mouth was on his, hot and certain. He let go of Dean's shirt to cup Dean's face instead. Suddenly Dean was off-balance, grabbing Blaise's jacket to steady himself as he wrapped his other hand around Blaise's neck to keep him close. Anxiety clawed at the back of his mind but Dean couldn't make himself stop, did not want to be finished with this—slick lips and sugary tongues—ever.

Blaise undid his belt and unbuttoned his jeans before pulling back to pull his shirt over his head. He tossed it on the floor and Dean just stared.

"Um, yeah, okay," he mumbled. Dean was distracted by a very large tattoo that made its way up from Blaise's back, over his shoulder and across his right pectoral. It was a series of runes interspersed by stars and fairies against a black-as-night background. It was the sort of art Dean would have expected to see on a canvas, not Blaise's skin.

"Every time I think you can't get more attractive you manage to get even hotter."

"It's a gift," Blaise quipped. "Your turn."

Dean slowly toed off his socks then pulled his shirt over his head. Blaise smiled and stared for a few moments, giving Dean time to do the one thing he should not have done: think. The tremors came back, but then Blaise's chest was against his chest, Blaise's mouth pressed against his lips, and Dean couldn't hear anything over the frantic pounding of their hearts against each other coupled with all the blood rushing south. Dean undid his jeans and slid them off, standing in Blaise's arms with nothing on but his boxers.

"Instructions," Dean whispered against Blaise's lips. "I like instructions."

"Yeah?" Blaise nodded, trailing kisses down Dean's neck. "Pull my trousers down."

Dean did as he was told, dropping to his knees and pulling the jeans down with him. Blaise stepped forward as he stepped out; his dick separated from Dean's mouth only by ten centimetres and the fabric of his briefs.

"You still nervous?" Blaise asked.

Dean shook his head. Blaise's voice was different. His tone or something, like he knew he was in complete control of the situation. Dean was melting like butter.

"Stand up," Blaise demanded. Dean stood and Blaise pulled him in for a hot, quick snog before asking, "Do you want it like this? With me telling you what to do?"

"It's helping," Dean said, breathless.

Blaise tucked one hand beneath the waistband of Dean's boxers and cupped his ass before pushing them down to Dean's knees. Dean stepped out of them and Blaise pushed him back onto the bed. Just as he righted himself against the pillows, Blaise pounced, straddling Dean's legs.

"You keep saying how attractive I am, but do you have any idea how gorgeous you are when you laugh? Or when you are looking at me like this, like you trust me to make this feel as good as you want it to." He punctuated those words by running his fingers up Dean's half-hard cock.

Dean groaned and threw his head back. Blaise's voice was barely more than a whisper, making his own desperate cries seem that much louder. Blaise ran his tongue over one of Dean's nipples and Dean sighed, clutching at the pillows for purchase.

"I would do all this over. The worry you would reject me, the fear when you were hurt, the judgement I always feel coming that never does … All that just to get you naked underneath me like this again."

"You must … really … like my abs, then," Dean teased when he could spare some breath in his lungs.

"You have no idea," Blaise admitted. He slid further down until his cheek brushed against Dean's cock. It wasn't a mistake; Blaise didn't make mistakes in bed. That wicked smile spelled trouble, but Dean still managed to be shocked when Blaise licked him. A wet stroke of heat over the head of Dean's cock that made every muscle in his torso strain with need.

"You like that," Blaise said. Not a question. He ran his thumb over Dean's lips, which parted enough to give him entry. Dean teased Blaise's thumb with the tip of his tongue, and he felt Blaise's erection growing against his thigh. It was enough to make his head spin.

Blaise pulled his thumb away and said, "Turn over."

"But I—"

" _Zuccherino _," Blaise said, "you asked for instructions. Now turn over."

Dean obliged him reluctantly. As though he sensed the disappointment, Blaise began trailing butterfly kisses down Dean's spine. He began to relax as Blaise ran his hands soothingly up and down Dean's thighs. All the tension left his body and even his mind unclenched from panic mode. Enough to whisper,

"Fuck me, please."

"I have you, _zuccherino _, but I need you to hold onto the headboard."

Dean obliged and repeated, "Please," his voice soft and uncertain. He felt Blaise's fingers caress his ass gently, before placing one finger inside him up to the first knuckle.

"Yes," he moaned. "More of that."

"Dean, when was the last time you did this?" Blaise asked, pushing his finger further in.

"Four months ago."

"Not what I meant," Blaise whispered. He added a second finger and Dean whimpered. "You do not need to answer, I was just curious."

"Two years ago," Dean admitted. "He let me bottom two years ago."

"He _let _you?" Blaise asked, not bothering to disguise the disgust in his voice. "Fucking you will be my goddamn privilege, Dean. Anyone who made you feel like it is anything less was wrong."

"Can we not talk about my ex while your fingers are in my ass?" Dean quipped.

"Apologies. It is difficult to think with you so tight around my fingers," Blaise whispered. He pulled in and out, fucking Dean slowly, enough to drag out the most undignified sounds. "I love that you can hardly breathe with the force of how much you want me."

Blaise added a third finger and Dean cried out.

"God, yes! Blaise ... _Blaise." _Dean meant to say "please" but his vocabulary seemed to have shrunk to only one word.

He couldn't say how long it was before he felt the tip of Blaise's cock at his entrance.

"Dean, I don't care how long you last I just want you to enjoy this. Tell me if you ever stop enjoying it."

" _Blaise."_

"The only thing I need you to do is keep your hands on the headboard."

"Okay," Dean whimpered.

He let Blaise in so easily, completely surrendering himself to the situation. He placed his forehead against the wall and focused on the minute movements of Blaise's dick as it pushed further inside him. Dean's eyes closed instinctively, focusing on that feeling. Blaise hovered over every part of his body, and his touch alone was enough to cause Dean's dick to stand at attention against his torso.

Blaise leaned forward to kiss Dean's cheek, just as he made it fully inside. Dean had taken him to the hilt and he grinded back into Blaise who moaned.

"Yes, _zuccherino _, take what you want."

He ground against Blaise, who pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back in. The gentleness disappeared in favour of carnal need. Dean needed to feel Blaise like this; Blaise with one arm around his torso and sharp teeth biting down onto the juncture where Dean's neck met his shoulder.

Their bodies fit together like they were made for this. They fell into a hard rhythm, where Dean asked for things and Blaise was more than happy to provide until Dean tried to stroke his cock.

"No!" Blaise shouted. His hips froze and Dean whined.

"What?"

"I made one request, Dean."

Blaise grabbed Dean's hand and slammed it back onto the headboard with enough force to make him wince in pain.

"Your hand stays there."

"But I need—"

"Do you, Dean?" Blaise asked. "Do you need to feel fingers around your dick? Is that what you want?"

He nearly came just from listening to Blaise say the words.

"Y-yes," he stuttered.

"Not yet, sweetheart, not yet." Blaise's thrusts resumed with an even more hurried pace. "I'm not close enough yet, I just need you to concentrate on how it feels. Because as much as you may be enjoying this, it is nothing compared to how amazing it is to be inside you. To feel your heartbeat racing beneath my hand like you have just finished a football match."

They were loud. The bed hit the wall with every thrust, and Dean was so desperate for friction he ground his dick into the pillows. The sounds of their bodies slapping against each other, pulling apart, then coming together again ... It was almost too much to bear. He felt every brush of Blaise's cock against his prostate and slammed his fist against the top of the headboard.

"I need your hand," Dean said, so soft it was more of a plea than a fact.

Blaise let his hands fall to the mattress so his chest was pressed firmly against Dean's back. The change of the angle allowed him to go the slightest bit deeper and he felt it. Blaise moaned in pleasure and Dean knew he was close. It pulled Blaise's name out of his mouth.

" _Blaise!"_

Dean felt himself clench more firmly around Blaise's cock. Finally, Dean felt Blaise's fingers graze the underside of his dick. He was so slick with precome that Blaise had to wipe his hand off on the duvet. He tugged again at Dean's cock, and it only took two rough strokes before the light show behind Dean's eyes went bright white. He went rigid underneath Blaise, cursed, then fell flat against the bed.

"Oh, fuck!"

He felt the twitch of Blaise's dick inside him and smiled, satiated, knowing he had lasted long enough to satisfy his partner. Blaise collapsed on top of him and muttered,

"So sorry ... Wanted to ask if I could come inside but it snuck up on me. You were so perfect, Dean." Blaise kissed his shoulder.

Sometime later after they cleaned up, Dean realized he could go home. He could walk seven steps down the hall and fall asleep in his own bed. But right then, with Blaise's arm tossed haphazardly over his torso, Dean thought that Blaise's bed felt more like the proper place to be than the one in his own flat. He placed his hand on top of Blaise's and said,

"This still feels perfect."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading. This is a super rare ship and I know it's not easy to take a chance on those. I appreciate all your reviews and the follows and just the general love surrounding these two. _


	7. Chapter 7

The only thing better than sex with Blaise was waking up with him.

However, Blaise was a morning person. Once Dean no longer had to be at work at that obscenely early hour, he could hardly pry his face from Blaise's pillows before 8:30. So "waking up with Blaise" usually meant "waking up to the smell of fresh bacon and eggs."

Their relationship progressed quickly but they spent so much time with each other it felt normal. There were cheek kisses and several failed attempts at giving Blaise a pet name. Dean ate strange food and Blaise kept coming to football matches. He and Alex became quite good friends.

"He has a crush on your friend, Jake."

"Hah, we've all been there," Dean said.

"Should I be concerned about lingering feelings?" Blaise teased.

"Absolutely," Dean quipped. "I only date men who can score goals from midfield."

"Damn, and I only date men who can crack an egg with one hand."

"Well, there are a few other things I can do with one hand …"

It took some time, but Dean learned to read Blaise almost as well as Blaise could read him. Instructions became less and less frequent until they weren't needed at all. But some days Blaise was so exhausted when he got home that sex was completely off the table. Those were the evenings Dean ordered takeaway and they ate on top of the duvet. Those nights were just as important as the others.

Not that everything was smooth sailing. They had disagreements, the first when Blaise attempted to buy chairs to go with the table.

"You can't just buy me furniture!"

"Why not?" Blaise asked. "I have more money than I could ever need and you need—"

"I need you to let me live my life!" Dean had shouted. "I am not your whore, Blaise! You don't need to buy me trophies and spend money so that I will want to be with you. I just want to be with you because I like you. And you need to let me keep space that is mine."

That delineation of space became more fluid as time went on since Dean spent more time in Blaise's flat than his own. Blaise would joke to his friends that there would soon be a Dean-shaped imprint in his sofa. They ate dinner together at least five days a week, but Dean was surprised to learn Blaise had an actual job. He owned two restaurants, one in London and one in Modena. He left for a full week in late August and it was like someone had snapped Dean's wand. There were some things he just didn't know how to do anymore. The number of times he walked over to Blaise's door that week was more than seven. He'd leave in the morning and walk over to kiss him good-bye, only to realize there was no one to answer the door. Dean would walk past his own door when he got home from work before turning around halfway to Blaise's flat.

The day Blaise returned, Dean greeted him with flowers and a chaste kiss. Blaise smiled and went to grab a vase.

"Did you miss me?"

"Terribly."

Blaise paused his search and placed the flowers on the counter. He pulled Dean close, stuffing his hands down the back of Dean's trousers.

"Well then I need to make it up to you," he whispered. Blaise began kissing up Dean's neck, and Dean tried to push him away.

"Right, before we get to that—"

"Whatever you have to say, I think we should do this first."

"Hmm … Tempting, but my mum phoned me yesterday—"

"Oh, God," Blaise pressed his forehead into Dean's shoulder. "Muggle things."

"Yes, yes, Muggle things … And my family has invited you, well _us_, over for dinner."

Dean felt Blaise tense around him. He knew this was coming; that he'd been able to put it off for nearly two months was remarkable. Dean wrapped his arms around Blaise's shoulders and sighed.

"We can say no, but they'll keep asking until we go."

"You know all of my family already," Blaise said, "so I suppose it is only fair that I meet yours."

"But you don't want to," Dean observed.

"No! No, I do, but … You said your mother never liked Seamus. What if she doesn't like me?"

"My mum never liked Seamus because he wasn't right and she knew it. You don't feel like him to me. I know we've only been together three months but nothing we have done has felt wrong."

"It has been perfect," Blaise mumbled.

"My mum will love you," Dean insisted.

"What about your stepfather?" Blaise asked. "Should I be worried about him, too?"

"He won't be there," Dean said. "There are some things he doesn't need to be involved in. But you will meet my sisters."

"All seven of them?"

"All seven of them."

A few days later, Dean brought over a photo album. He and Blaise snuggled together on the sofa as Dean flipped through it.

"This is my oldest sister, Ava, she's twenty."

"She doesn't look anything like you," Blaise observed.

Dean laughed and agreed. Ava looked like their mum, who always told Dean he took after his dad. It was strange to hear because they had so few photos of his father. Dean flipped to the back of the album and showed Blaise all three. The first was a photo of his parents on their first date. They were gazing at each other across a table, so intimate Dean never really liked sharing it. The second one was the two of them at their wedding. Dean's father had an arm around his mother's shoulders, not unlike the way Dean sometimes liked to pull Blaise in close.

The final photo was of Dean's father holding his newborn son. Dean would give anything, anything at all to experience that moment. His father smiling down at him, mum behind the camera … He never showed this photo to anyone but he thought Blaise might understand.

"He looks like you," Blaise said. "He has your eyes."

"I have his," Dean corrected.

"He is tall like you, too," Blaise observed. "Thank you for showing these to me. I know I would treasure every photo of my father if I knew who he was."

"Would you want to know?" Dean asked.

Blaise shook his head and said, "No. My family is Draco, Bastien, Romi … Those are the people I can count on. The people who have always been there for me when I had no one to turn to. They never judge me and we spend Christmases together, so they are my family. The man who fucked my mother should count his lucky stars he lived past it."

Dean chuckled.

"Do you think it was an accident?" he asked. "Your mum having a child, I mean?"

"No," Blaise revealed. "I do not think it was like that at all. Every time I asked my mother about him, she closed off. She would go to another room to calm down before coming back out to tell me never to ask about him again. If he did not matter to her she would have dismissed it. I think they were in love and he died or maybe the war came between them. Whatever it was ruined love for her and that is why she became the woman she was known to be."

Dean flipped through the album, pointing out each of his siblings. Kinsley was nineteen, just a tad over five feet tall, and they bonded over football. Right after the war ended, Dean took her to matches to adjust to normal life. A place where there were so many loud noises he didn't need to be scared by every sound. She was a great player, too, and Dean liked to brag he taught her everything she knew.

Leilani looked most like their mum. She had the same dark curls, the same nose, and the same take-no-shit outlook on life. Then there was Lou who was tall and gangly. She looked more like her father.

"Are those two twins?" Blaise asked.

Dean smiled before saying, "Olivia and Amelia. Good luck telling them apart; I just guess most of the time. And then, there's Zara." He pointed to the most recent photo in the book. She was seven in the photo, sitting on Dean's lap.

"She is my favourite," Blaise teased. "Am I allowed to have favourites?"

"Zara would expect nothing less. She is eight now and can draw surprisingly well."

"Do you think they will like me?" Blaise asked. The vulnerability in his voice was heart-wrenching.

Dean put the photo album on the table and adjusted so Blaise could lean on him more comfortably.

"I hope so."

**.oOo.**

It was the middle of September when Blaise finally agreed to go to dinner. They Apparated a few blocks away so he could work off some nerves on the walk over. It didn't work. When they reached the front of the brick house with the red door Blaise stopped dead in his tracks.

"Oh, Merlin, this was a bad idea." Blaise's hand shook in Dean's. "So, so bad. We should cancel. I am not ready for this at all, we should—"

Dean kissed him to shut him up.

"They are going to love you," he said, resting his hands on Blaise's neck. "Just don't criticize my mum's cooking and she'll adore you."

"Okay," Blaise said with a nod. "Okay."

Dean led him up the driveway by the hand. He knocked on the front door and waited.

They heard, "DEAN'S HERE AND HE BROUGHT A BOY!" through the door. The door opened and Dean was accosted by his sisters. They somehow made it into the entryway and Dean eventually introduced "my boyfriend, Blaise Zabini."

"That's a pretty name!"

"Like fire!"

"You are really handsome!"

"Are you a model?"

"How did you meet Dean?"

He eventually convinced his sisters to scoot into the dining area. Dean turned to look at Blaise who had softened the slightest bit.

He sighed in relief and said, "They don't hate me."

"No, they don't." Dean pressed a quick kiss to the back of Blaise's hand. "Now for the real test. Mum!"

Blaise looked like he was ready to bolt out of there, so Dean pulled him further inside. His mother popped out of the dining room and Dean pulled her into a tight hug.

"I miss you so much, mum. It is good to see you."

"You too, baby," she replied. Her arms were tight around him. His mum gave the best hugs. "I know the past six months haven't been easy for you but it always gets better, Dean. It always does."

He pulled back and stepped to the side.

"Mum, this is my boyfriend, Blaise. Blaise, this is my mum, Hana."

Blaise was staring at Dean's mother. Eventually her expression fell and she asked,

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing at all" Blaise insisted. "It is just that Dean showed me photos of his father and the two of them look remarkably similar. There was just something different I could not quite understand, but as I am looking at you now I see his smile."

She grinned and opened her arms.

"You're a real winner, aren't you? Come here, Blaise. Let me see you up close so I can see what has my baby boy so head-over-heels."

Blaise groaned and complained, "Dean, you never said your family was all huggers."

"Where did you think he got it from?" his mum teased.

Blaise gave her a hug but she quickly ended it to inspect him.

"Not too thin, good. You dress up very nicely as well, much appreciated. I like that you're tall, Dean and that Seamus boy were in different postcodes."

Blaise snickered.

"You are gorgeous, dear, but you have sad eyes. Something tells me that doesn't have a damn thing to do with Dean." She turned toward the kitchen. "Come along! Dinner's nearly finished."

Dean wrapped an arm around Blaise's shoulders and reminded him, "Breathe."

Dinner went well. Dean's sisters prodded Blaise with questions and Zara ended up in Blaise's lap. They got on surprisingly well. Dean was surprised that his mum didn't have more questions. He answered as many as he could, but Blaise held his own.

Dean said good-bye to the older two then sat down to watch some rubbish telly before the rest went to bed. Blaise and Dean's mum were still in the kitchen doing dishes, which took a curiously long time.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Leilani asked, stuffing her feet beneath Dean's legs.

"Probably reminding Blaise to use protection," Lou joked from where she was perched on the arm of the sofa. Dean used his foot to push her off.

"Oi! None of that," he insisted. "I'm sure they're just talking about the weather."

Olivia facetiously said, "Sure, the weather."

"More like _whether_ you two are in love," Amelia sing-songed.

They all laughed until Leilani asked, "Are you?"

Dean glanced up toward the door before turning up the volume a bit.

"He hasn't said it."

"Did you say it?" Zara asked.

"No," he said, gentling tickling her stomach. She pushed his hands away and giggled.

"Maybe he wants you to say it first."

"I can't," Dean admitted. He leaned further back onto the sofa as they all turned to look at him.

"How can you not be in love with him?" Leilani asked. "We've known him two hours and we already love him. Zara likes him more than she likes you."

"Traitor," Dean teased.

"And he's hot," Lou added. "Even mum likes him."

"Do you miss Shea?" Leilani asked.

Dean shook his head.

"Not at all."

"Not even a little?" Zara asked.

Dean thought about it for a moment. He hadn't thought about Seamus in days. Hardly thought about him anymore unless it was, "Wow, Seamus never did this for me" or "I wonder why Seamus never made me feel this way." Blaise was the sort of person who narrowed Dean's focus to what was important. He was a better business owner, a better boss, and a better person to be around because he wasn't focused on his heartache all the time.

Dean had even bought some furniture. He purchased a real coffee table and a stand for the telly. He purchased a better mattress because not all the sex happened in Blaise's flat. Dean bought a desk for the office and even splurged a little on curtains. His own flat began to feel like home. Just a bit, but homey nonetheless. He thought about whether he missed Seamus and wondered when, exactly, that vice-like grip around his heart had loosened. Dean finally admitted,

"I don't miss him. Not even a little."

Blaise and Dean left a half hour later, Blaise somehow more popular among Dean's sisters than their own brother. Dean fell onto Blaise's bed and stuffed his face into a pillow.

"That was nice," Blaise said. He changed into his pyjamas then sat on the bed next to Dean, who hadn't moved. "Are you feeling well?"

He nodded. They sat there for several minutes, Dean with his face in the pillows and Blaise's fingertips tracing lines up and down his spine.

"Your mother told me a story, which she told me not to tell you, but you know … _Secrets._"

"The value is in who you keep it from," Dean repeated. They'd discussed it at length early on: no secrets, only surprises. The difference, of course, is that surprises are meant to be revealed.

"I asked how she met your father. It is always interesting to hear how wizards and witches fall in love with Muggles."

Dean's breath caught in his chest. His mother had never told him how she met his father. She was always coy about it and Dean never felt the need to ask. His mum had always been enough.

"She said your father was walking on the other side of the street one day. She was with a friend and noticed him because he was so tall. She shouted at him, 'Why are you wearing such a ridiculous hat?' Your dad jogged across the street and put his wizard hat on her head before he said, 'I dunno, because it looks better on you.'"

Dean laughed.

"She told me she knew he was the one at that moment. There was something about him that was different. Not magical, just right. It reminded me of how I met you."

"How so?" Dean mumbled. His voice was muffled by the pillows but Blaise seemed to hear it well enough.

Blaise answered, "Because you felt right."

Maybe it was the prompting from his sisters. Perhaps it was the way his mother had noticed the sadness in Blaise's eyes that Dean wanted to spend the rest of his life trying to wipe away. Or maybe it was none of that and the time was just right. Whatever the case, Dean sat up and said, without preamble,

"I love you."

"Oh …" Blaise whispered.

Dean's heart stuttered, completely missed a beat, then started trying to break out of his ribcage.

"Oh?!" Dean repeated. "All you have to say is, 'Oh?'"

"No, I was about to say, 'Dean, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I am hopelessly in love with you.' But you beat me to it and I do not really know where to go from here."

"Are you serious?" Dean asked.

"Absolutely not, I hate everything about you and you should get the hell out of my flat."

"Shut up," Dean said with a smile. He took Blaise's hand and his heart slowed back to a normal beat.

"I think I am in love with you, anyway. I cannot be sure; I have never been in love before. I asked my friends and they all have different answers. Draco says love is quick and hot, fireworks, that sort of thing. But I never look at him and Hermione and see us. Theo says love is slow and all about trust, but we are not very slow at this, are we?"

"No, we're not," Dean agreed.

"I thought about it for awhile. All I know is that I love coming home to you, and when I do not get to be with you at the end of the day it feels wrong. I know you need space and I like that you are not clinging to me like you need me. You just want to be near me because you do. Because you like me."

"I do like you," Dean said, resting his chin on Blaise's shoulder. "Go on, then."

"You like my food, you are a great shag, and you are a kind-hearted person. When we disagree you do not treat me like I am wrong, you just make sure I hear what you have to say. Of course, you are usually right, but—"

"Remember that next time you want to argue and we can skip straight to the make-up sex, yeah?"

"—but you just make me really happy. After everything, I think that is what love is to me. Knowing that you want me to be happy and I want the same for you."

"So I love you …" Dean said.

Blaise nodded.

"And you love me …"

Another nod.

"I guess that means we're in love with each other," Dean observed. Then he whacked Blaise in the back of the head with a pillow. Blaise pounced on him then started snogging him like he couldn't get air from anywhere else. Eventually Dean got the chance to say,

"You make me really happy, too."

**.oOo.**

Dean stopped going to his flat after that. Unless Blaise was out of town, he walked straight past his door and into Blaise's place. He kept clothes in Blaise's closet, put a toothbrush on the sink and used Blaise's fancy Italian toothpaste. Dean did his work on Blaise's coffee table and spent his spare time picking recipes from a cookbook and daring Blaise to make them better.

It was early October when Blaise came home with an anxious expression on his face. Dean kissed him hello and asked,

"What's wrong?"

"I think you should sit down."

Uh-oh. That was never a good thing. Had someone died? Had Hermione followed through on her threat to hex Draco's bollocks off? A dozen dreadful scenarios went through Dean's head before Blaise sat him down and stood on the other side of the coffee table.

"My lease is up on November 1st."

"Oh."

That was unexpected. Dean never really thought about it. Blaise had been there far before Dean moved in, that much was obvious. The look on Blaise's face meant some part of their arrangement was about to change, and Dean wasn't sure he wanted it to.

"I bought a house in Fulham six months ago."

"Before you met me," Dean said.

"Yes."

"You've had a house this entire time?!"

"Well, not exactly," Blaise said. "I have been fixing it up. I needed a bigger kitchen and I wanted it to look nice, you know. Somewhere to call home for the next decade or so that does not involve me entering through a lobby or taking a lift."

Dean nodded, unsure of what to say.

"May I show it to you?"

Which is how Dean ended up hand-in-hand with Blaise outside a brick home adjacent to the Thames. It had a white door with a gold knocker, and Dean thought it looked very much like what Blaise would consider home. Blaise led him up the steps, threw open the door, and grinned.

"This is it."

Dean stepped inside and his mouth just dropped open. It was so sleek and sophisticated, Dean felt sort of ashamed to be inside at all. Then Blaise grabbed his hand and pulled him further inside the ground floor. He started pointing at things.

"Small bathroom there, closet there, here is the best part!"

The kitchen was amazing. It had stainless steel appliances and an island large enough for Blaise to cook a meal for several people. It was, quite frankly, gigantic. There were two ovens. Two!

"So I can cook things at different temperatures simultaneously," Blaise explained. "There are so many things to love about this kitchen, it is the stuff of my dreams, Dean. I just love it."

And he did. Blaise obviously loved his kitchen. While part of Dean was excited to see him so happy, the other part was a bit dismayed because it meant Blaise was moving away. He wouldn't be seven steps down the hallway anymore. What if the distance came between them? What if Blaise found someone else closer to him—Then Dean turned to see the dining area. There were eight chairs spread out around a nonexistent rectangle: three chairs on each side and one at either end. The perfect size to fit the table currently residing in Dean's flat.

"This is my home," Blaise said, "and I would like it to be yours, too."

Dean couldn't find the words to say what he felt. Blaise stood next to him, more rigid with each passing second.

"It does not have to be. If you are more comfortable in your flat, I understand. I thought maybe … Maybe this is enough? Maybe I am enough."

"I want this," Dean said. "Yes. My answer is yes, if you are asking me to move in, my answer is yes."

"Are you sure?" Blaise asked.

"I've never been more sure of anything," Dean said. He pulled Blaise into a kiss, running his hands along Blaise's side before nipping at Blaise's lower lip. "If you want to be together, then let's be together all the time. You and me, coming home to each other."

"Merlin, I really like the sound of that. I was so scared you would say no, but after all this time together you would think I would start realizing you want this as much as I do."

"I really do," Dean admitted. "I really, really do."

* * *

_A/N: And a sugary-sweet ending. Thank you so much for reading!_


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